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THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 


By 
J.  D.  BERESFORD 

The  Jervaise  Comedy 
An  Imperfect  Mother 


THE     PRISONERS 
OF    HARTLING 


BY 

J.  D.  BERESFORD 


'There  is  a  sore  evil  which  I  have  seen  under  the 
sun,  namely,  riches  kept  for  the  owners  thereof  to 
their  hurt.' 

Ecclesiastes  v.  13. 


*4- 


|2eto  gotft 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1922 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN   THE  UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  printed.     Published  February,  1922. 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


To 
H.  H.  BASHFORD 


472055 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 


DOG'S  life,  old  man,  a  dog's  life;  you  can't  get 
away  from  that." 

Arthur  Woodroffe's  voice  was  quite  cheerful  as 
he  framed  this  indictment  of  the  life  of  a  general 
practitioner  in  a  poor  neighbourhood,  but  his  com- 
panion frowned  and  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

'*You  are  still  re-acting  to  the  pernicious  influences 
of  that  damnable  war,"  he  said.  "You're  hankering 
after  the  intoxication  of  saving  wounded  under  fire; 
exciting  stunts  of  that  sort;  Sbana  and  Pharpar, 
rivers  of  Damascus.  You've  got  to  learn  to  be 
content  with  Jordan.  Risk  your  life  in  more  homely 
ways  saving  the  sick  in  Peckham.  Same  thing, 
really;  only  you  don't  get  orders  for  it.  And  of 
course  .  .  ."  he  hesitated,  pushed  up  his  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles,  and  stared  hard  at  his  friend 
and  paid  assistant.  uAny  way,  what  is  it  you're 
hankering  after,  my  good  chap?"  he  concluded. 

Woodroffe  looked  critically  round  the  little  room, 
and  then  at  Somers  glowering  down  at  him  from 
the  hearthrug.  "More  space,"  he  said  briefly;  "and 
more  .  .  ."  He  seemed  to  jib  at  the  word  that 
was  obviously  in  his  mind. 

"More  beauty,"  Somers  suggested. 

"If    you    like,"    Woodroffe    agreed    carelessly. 

3 


4  -.   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"Something  of  that  sort.     I'd  like  to  get  about  the 
y/orld  x  hit,  too." 

"As  medical  attendant  to  a  hypochondriac  mil- 
lionaire ?" 

"Or  some  job  abroad;  or  .  .  ." 

"What  you  really  want,  my  lad,  is  an  independent 
income  and  lots  of  leisure,"  Somers  commented. 

"You  can't  say  I've  ever  been  a  slacker,  Bob," 
Woodroffe  said. 

"No,  but  you'd  soon  pick  it  up  if  you  had  got 
enough  to  live  on  without  worrying." 

Woodroffe  considered  that  before  he  replied. 
"Don't  believe  I  should.  Go  in  for  research  or 
something.     Hate  having  nothing  to  do." 

"There's  always  hunting  and  golf,  and  bridge 
and  billiards,  and  cricket,  and  so  on,"  Somers  said. 
"Life  of  a  country  gentleman.  Also,  you  might 
marry  and  beget  a  family,  and  go  in  for  politics. 
Quite  a  strenuous  life  it  seems,  for  a  lot  of  'em." 

"Bit  of  a  change  wouldn't  it,  after  the  life  of  a 
panel  doctor  in  Peckham,"  Woodroffe  remarked; 
"but  I  don't  think  it's  my  style  all  the  same.  I'd 
like  to  do  something,  something  useful.  And  by 
the  way,  old  thing,  if  you're  taking  on  Nellie 
Mason,  I'd  advise  you  to  turn  in.  I  saw  her  this 
morning,  and  she's  pretty  near  her  time.  Rotten 
job  it'll  be,  too.  But  I'll  take  her  on  if  you  like. 
A  fat  primip  like  her  would  be  good  for  my  char- 
acter." 

"No,  I'll  take  it,"  Somers  said.  "I  promised  her 
I  would.  She  thinks  you're  a  bit  young.  All  the 
same,  I'm  not  going  to  bed  yet.  I  want  to  have 
this  out  with  you.  It's  interesting,  for  one  thing. 
I  suppose  nothing  particular  has  upset  you  lately, 
has  it?    Nothing  that's  set  your  mind  roving." 

"I  don't  know.    Yes.     In  a  way.    Had  a  letter 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING       5 

this  morning  asking  me  to  spend  a  week-end  with 
a  wealthy  sort  of  connection  of  mine  in  Sussex — 
or  Surrey,  is  it?    Harding's  the  name  of  the  place. " 

"Never  heard  of  it,  nor  of  your  connection  with 
wealth,"  Somers  said. 

"It's  a  bit  distant,"  Woodroffe  explained.  "My 
aunt,  my  mother's  sister  that  is,  married  the  old 
man's  son.  His  name's  Garvice  Kenyon.  Ever 
heard  of  him?" 

Somers  shook  his  head. 

"It'd  be  a  bit  before  your  time,"  Woodroffe 
acknowledged.  "The  old  chap  must  be  about  ninety. 
I've  only  seen  him  once.  I  went  there  to  stay  with 
my  mother  when  I  was  a  kid  of  about  nine  or  ten. 
Some  idea  of  keeping  up  the  connection,  I  suppose. 
But  after  my  father  got  that  living  in  Yorkshire, 
we  dropped  out.  I  don't  remember  much  about 
the  place  or  the  people.  General  impression  of 
grandeur,  and  so  on,  that's  all.  Mighty  fine  place, 
I  believe." 

"How  did  you  pick  'em  up  again?"  Somers  asked. 

"Well,  I  haven't  picked  'em  up  again  yet," 
Woodroffe  said.  "But  I  sat  next  to  old  Beddington 
at  that  public  dinner  you  took  me  to  a  fortnight 
ago,  and  in  the  course  of  conversation — the  sort 
of  tosh  one  does  talk  to  your  next  door  neighbour 
on  those  occasions — he  happened  to  mention  that 
he  was  going  down  to  see  old  Kenyon.  So  I  claimed 
the  connection  for  the  sake  of  something  to  say. 
After  that  Beddington  talked  a  lot  about  Kenyon; 
in  fact  he  told  me  more  than  I  had  ever  heard 
before.  And,  well,  I  suppose  in  much  the  same  sort 
of  way  he  must  have  talked  to  old  Kenyon  about 
me,  when  he  was  down  there.  Anyhow,  this  morn- 
ing I  got  a  letter  from  my  aunt — forwarded  from 
Holt's — Beddington  probably  told  'em  I'd  been  in 


6       THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

the  R.A.M.C. — asking  me  to  go  down  there  the 
week-end  after  next.  She  says  the  old  man  would 
be  Very  interested  to  hear  some  of  my  war  expe- 
riences.' Bright  old  bird,  apparently,  for  ninety. 
Beddington  said  he  was  as  fit  as  a  flea,  still,  but  a 
bit  absent-minded." 

4 'And  the  thought  of  going  down  there  has  un- 
settled you,  has  it?"  Somers  asked. 

"Don't  know  that  I  am  going,"  Woodroffe  said. 
"My  togs  are  a  bit  rusty  for  that  kind  of  show." 

"I'd  almost  forgotten  that  one  felt  like  that  at 
twenty-eight,"  commented  Somers.  "After  the 
war,  too.  Accept  the  wisdom  of  forty-five,  my  dear 
boy,  and  believe  me  that  rusty  togs  are  quite  dis- 
tinguished these  days." 

"Makes  you  feel  rotten,  all  the  same,"  Wood- 
roffe thought. 

"But  you  still  avoid  the  real  issue,"  Somers 
persisted;  "why  this  invitation  has  unsettled  you." 

"I  don't  know,"  Woodroffe  said,  settling  himself 
a  little  deeper  in  his  arm-chair.  "I  suppose  if  one 
analyses  it,  the  thing  set  me  thinking  of — of  the 
differences  between  Kenyon's  position  and  mine. 
Here  I  am  with  no  decent  clothes,  and  no  money; 
sweating  myself  thin  over  a  dirty  job  like  trying  to 
mitigate  the  sickness  of  Peckham,  while  old  Ken- 
yon's got  more  money  than  he  knows  what  to  do 
with."  t 

"Incipient  socialism,  this,"  Somers  confided  to 
the  wall  opposite. 

"It  isn't,"  Woodroffe  said.  "I've  no  sympathy 
with  the  greasy  proletariat;  not  my  line  at  all. 
It  is  that  the  whole  thing  has  just  set  me  wondering 
how  I'm  going  to  get  out  of  it.  It's  no  damned 
good  pretending,  my  dear  Bob,  that  I  wouldn't 
sooner  be  lying  snug  in  a  clean  comfortable  bed 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING       7 

than  delivering  women  like  Nellie  Mason.  And, 
oh!  Lord,  the  accent  is  on  the  clean  all  the  time." 

"You  don't  mean  to  imply  .  .  ."  Somers  began. 

"My  dear  chap,  of  course  I  don't,"  Woodroffe 
cut  in.  "My  bed  here  is  clean  enough  for  any  one, 
but  for  about,  twelve  hours  of  the  day  I  am  mixing 
with  dirtiness  of  every  sort  and  kind,  and  I  had 
more  than  my  fill  of  it  in  the  war — lice  by  the  yard 
and  every  sort  of  filth.  You  blooming  base-wallahs 
never  knew  your  blessings.  Well,  all  I  know  is 
that  I  used  to  tell  myself  stories  of  getting  clean, 
fantasy  hot  baths  in  exquisite  surroundings,  and 
picture  myself  going  straight  from  them  into  brand 
new  clothes  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Instead  of 
which  I've  dropped  straight  into  this.  I  know  I'm 
clean  all  right,  Bob,  but  I  can't  feel  clean.  You've 
got  to  admit  now,  haven't  you,  that  ours  is  a  dirty 
job,  take  it  all  round?" 

Somers  put  his  hand  under  his  coat  and  scratched 
his  left  shoulder  vigorously.  "Oh  1  damn,"  he  re- 
marked, after  a  thoughtful  interval. 

"I  might  come  back  to  it,  after  a  couple  of  years 
or  so,"  Woodroffe  began  again  apologetically. 
"But  it's  becoming  almost  an  obsession  with  me 
just  now.  I  expect  these  psycho-analysis  Johnnies 
would  say  I  was  suffering  from  some  suppression 
or  shock  or  something." 

"You've  definitely  made  up  your  mind  to  chuck 
this  job,  then?"  Somers  asked. 

"I  hadn't  when  we  began,"  Woodroffe  replied. 
"But  talking  to  you  about  it  seems  to  have  cleared 
my  mind.  Honestly  I'd  no  idea  of  chucking  it  when 
we  started  this  jaw,  and  now  it  seems  the  only 
possible  thing  to  do." 

"What  arc  you  going  to  live  on?"  Somers  asked. 

"I've    saved    between    four    and    five    hundred 


8       THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

pounds,"  Woodroffe  said.  "Carry  me  on  for  a  bit, 
though  I  suppose  it  isn't  worth  two  hundred  these 
days.  And  then  I  might  have  a  look  round  one  of 
the  colonies,  Canada  or  New  Zealand,  or  some- 
where.    It'd  be  cleaner  than  Peckham." 

Somers  sighed,  and  made  a  gesture  of  renuncia- 
tion. "I'm  sorry  about  this,  Arthur,"  he  said; 
"very  sorry — not  only  because  I  shall  lose  you — 
though  that's  bad  enough,  but  also,  because,  well, 
your  attitude  disappoints  me." 

Woodroffe  hunched  himself  in  his  chair  and  began 
to  fidget,  touching  various  marks  here  and  there 
on  the  hearthrug  with  the  toe  of  his  slipper. 

"You've  always  said  we  ought  to  express  our- 
selves," he  grumbled,  "and  here  I'm  going  contrary 
to  my  inclinations  all  the  time.  I  haven't  forgotten 
your  yarns  on  that  subject  at  the  hospital  eight 
years  ago." 

"My  dear  old  chap,  that's  the  very  point," 
Somers  replied.  "That's  what  disappoints  me.  I 
thought  you  had  something  better  to  express  than 
these  calf-like  yearnings  for  change  and  luxury." 

Woodroffe's  handsome  face  had  taken  on  the 
expression  of  a  sulky  schoolboy.  He  was  still  intent 
on  tracing  some  ideal  pattern  in  the  design  of  the 
hearthrug  as  he  said:  "Had  nearly  five  years  of 
it.  Over  four  years  in  the  Army  and  six  months 
here.  Don't  see  why  in  the  name  of  God  I  shouldn't 
at  least  get  out  into  some  clean,  decent  country  like 
Canada." 

"I  shan't  try  to  stop  you,"  Somers  replied. 

"All  the  same  you're  making  me  feel  perfectly 
rotten  about  it,"  Woodroffe  said.  "Making  me  feel 
as  if  I  were  a  deserter,  slinking  off  and  leaving  you 
here.    Might  just  as  well  say  at  once  that  you  won't 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING       9 

let  me  go.  Of  course  I  shan't,  now  I  know  how  you 
feel  about  it." 

Somers  stared  hard  at  the  opposite  wall,  tucked 
his  hands  under  his  short  coat-tails,  and  as  he  spoke 
alternately  raised  himself  on  his  toes,  and  let  him- 
self down  on  his  heels  with  an  effect  of  emphasising 
his  points. 

"I  stand  reproved,  Arthur,"  he  said.  "I  was 
wrong — quite  wrong.  Purely  selfish.  I've  been  a 
bit  tired  lately  and  bad-tempered." 

"Not  you,"  Woodroffe  mumbled. 

"I  have,"  Somers  insisted.  "I'm  in  a  nasty  mood 
to-night." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  take  Nellie  Mason,"  Wood- 
roffe put  in. 

"I  can't.  I  promised  her,  five  months  ago. 
Never  mind  that.  We're  talking  about  you.  And  I 
want  you  to  go.  Yes;  I  mean  it.  You  ought  to  go. 
I'm  a  short-sighted  old  fool;  much  too  wrapped 
up  in  myself  and  my  own  affairs;  but  now  that  I've 
heard  the  case  stated  I  can  see  the  truth.  You'd 
only  stultify  and  repress  yourself  by  staying  here. 
I  know  how  loyal  you  are,  and  I  know  that  at  a 
word  from  me  you'd  go  on.  You  mustn't.  You'd 
do  harm  to  yourself  and  to  the  practice  by  denying 
your  impulse.  As  you  reminded  me,  that's  a 
well-established  principle  of  mine,  though  I  haven't 
thought  much  about  it  for  the  last  five  years — 
there's  been  too  much  to  do.  The  point  is,  however, 
that  you'll  do  no  good  to  yourself  or  any  one  while 
you're  working  against  the  grain.  Fay  ce  que 
voudra.  It's  possible  that  you  may  come  a  tre- 
mendous cropper,  and  that  might  do  you  all  the 
good  in  the  world.  But  go  you  must,  I  wouldn't 
keep  you  now  if  you  wanted  to  stay." 


io     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

Woodroffe  had  stopped  fidgeting.  "But  look 
here,  Bob,  old  man,"  he  said.  "As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  can't  go  yet,  not  for  a  month  or  two." 

"You  can  go  to-morrow  if  you  want  to,"  Somers 
replied.  "Bates  wants  a  job  and  he'd  be  glad  to 
come." 

"Oh!    Lord!     Bates!"  interjected  Woodroffe. 

"Yes,  ohlordbates !"  Somers  corroborated  him. 
"Dear  old  wooden-headed,  persistent,  patient,  un- 
inspired Bates.  He's  just  the  man  I  want.  The 
panel  patients'll  love  him,  because  he'll  take  so 
much  trouble  over  'em.  It's  true  that  he'll  have 
to  work  eighteen  hours  a  day  to  get  through,  but 
he  likes  that  sort  of  thing.  Makes  him  feel  as  if 
he  were  being  some  use  in  the  world,  poor  chap. 
Oh!  yes,  I  can  do  with  Bates,  but  God!  I'll  miss 
you,  Arthur." 

"I'm  damned  if  I'll  go,"  Woodroffe  announced, 
getting  up.    "Everlastingly  damned  if  I  will." 

"You  will,  my  son,  because  I  won't  keep  you," 
Somers  said.  "But  I  don't  say  that  I  won't  ever 
have  you  back.  That  depends,  of  course,  on  how 
you  return  to  me.  If  you  want  to  come  back  in 
two,  or  three,  or  five  years'  time;  just  turn  up  and 
say,  'Bob,  I  think  I'd  like  to  take  up  the  old  work 
again!  and  we'll  go  into  partnership.'  You'll  be 
ripe  for  it.  Now  you've  got  to  go  and  find  out 
what  you  are  fit  for.  You're  not  just  now  fit  for 
this  job  or  you  wouldn't  be  feeling  as  you  do  about 
it.  I  know  you'd  stay  out  of  friendship  for  me, 
but  that's  no  good — no  good  at  all.  I'd  sooner 
have  ohlordbates  trying  to  be  some  use  in  the 
world." 

Woodroffe  sat  down  again  and  stared  rather 
gloomily  at  the  pattern  of  the  hearthrug.  "I  feel 
rather  a  swine,  all  the  same,  Bob,"  he  said. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     n 

"You  won't  in  a  month's  time,"  Somers  assured 
him. 

Woodroffe  contemplated  that  remark  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  smiled  rather  grimly.  "In  a  way  I 
hope  I  will,"  he  said,  "and  in  another  way  I  hope  I 
won't.  You  needn't  think  it'll  be  a  case  of  'out  of 
sight,  out  of  mind,'  Bob;  but  I  shouldn't  care  to  live 
permanently  with  the  thought  of  myself  as  being  a 
swine  for  having  left  you." 

"You're  not  leaving  me,  my  dear  man,  I'm  send- 
ing you  away  for  your  own  good  and  that  of  the 
practice,"  Somers  returned. 

"Comes  to  the  same  thing.  It  means  I've  failed 
you." 

"It  means  that  you've  failed  yourself,"  Somers 
corrected  him.  "Now  I  want  you  to  go  out  into  the 
world  and  find  out  where  and  why.  You'll  do  it. 
I  shall  expect  you  back  sometime." 

Woodroffe  sighed  and  got  up,  but  his  face  had 
cleared.  "I'll  come  back,"  he  said;  "but  I'll  admit 
it's  a  relief  to  go  in  a  lot  of  ways.  I — good  Lord, 
I  want  more  space,"  and  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
as  if  to  demonstrate  how  very  little  space  there  was 
in  that  small  room. 

Somers  nodded.  "That's  settled,"  he  said.  "And 
I  don't  know  that  you  could  make  a  better  begin- 
ning, Arthur,  than  by  accepting  that  invitation  of 
your  rich  connections  for  a  week-end." 

"Oh!  ah!  I'd  forgotten  that,"  Woodroffe  said, 
looked  down  at  the  knees  of  his  trousers,  and  added 
with  a  faint  blush:  "Might  get  myself  some  new 
togs  out  of  capital?  I'm  sure  to  want  'em  sooner 
or  later.  Only  things  are  such  a  filthy  price  just  now. 
They  rook  you  about  thirty  quid  for  a  dress  suit." 

"I  should  certainly  get  some  new  togs,"  Somers 
advised  him.    "Treat  it  as  an  investment." 


12     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"Of  course,  if  you  put  it  like  that,"  Woodroffe 
said,  with  a  grin. 

"I'll  take  the  responsibility  of  letting  you  squan- 
der your  capital,"  Somers  replied  gravely. 

"Facetious  old  dog,  you!"  Woodroffe  returned. 
"Like  to  pretend  I'm  still  in  leading  strings,  don't 
you?" 

"Lord,  you're  not  ready  for  leading  strings  yet," 
Somers  said.  "Wait  till  you're  weaned  before  you 
try  to  walk." 

Woodroffe  thumped  him  playfully  on  the  chest. 

"Oh!  go  to  bed,"  Somers  growled.  "I'm  going 
to  try  and  snatch  an  hour  before  I'm  fetched  for 
Nellie  Mason;  if  I  am  fetched.  Personally,  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  wasn't  for  another  week 
yet." 

"Dog's  life,  old  man,  a  dog's  life,"  Woodroffe 
commented  as  he  left  the  room. 

When  he  had  gone  Somers  threw  himself  down 
with  a  groan  into  the  arm-chair.  "I  wonder  how 
long  it'll  be  before  he  comes  back?"  he  thought. 
"If  he'll  ever  come  back?" 

In  his  mind's  eye  he  had  a  disgustingly  clear 
image  of  the  solemn,  earnest  face  of  young  Bates. 


II 


II 

ARTHUR  WOODROFFE'S  true  defence  of  his 
action  in  leaving  Peckham  did  not  occur  to  him 
until  after  he  had  parted  with  Somers. 

In  the  course  of  the  ten  days  that  had  passed 
since  his  sudden  arrival  at  a  decision,  he  had  fallen 
into  a  perfect  intoxication  of  spending.  In  that 
time  he  had  spent  over  two  hundred  pounds. 

And  with  that  expenditure  he  had  broken  another 
habit  of  thought.  His  early  life  had  always  been 
overshadowed  by  the  cares  and  threats  of  re- 
spectable poverty,  and  when  his  last  financial  re- 
sponsibility had  been  closed  by  his  mother's  death, 
eighteen  months  earlier,  he  had  continued  to  save 
money,  with  the  prudent  thought  that  he  might 
presently  need  capital. 

But  just  as  he  had  suddenly  and  surprisingly 
realised  that  there  was  no  compelling  reason  why 
he  should  stay  on  as  Somers'  assistant  at  Peckham, 
so,  also,  he  had  realised  when  he  began  his  shop- 
ping, that  he  might,  if  he  wished,  do  the  thing  in 
style.  He  was  beginning  a  new  life.  He  was  young 
and  competent,  and  he  had  a  profession.  He  would 
let  the  future  take  care  of  itself. 

And  here  was  one  of  his  fantasies  coming  true; 
he  would  have  everything  new  and  clean.  He 
remembered  his  dream  of  stripping  naked  and 
plunging  into  a  deep  wide  river,  a  sweet  and  rapid 
flood  of  purifying  water;  of  swimming  many  miles 
until  he  came  to  a  new  land  where  vermin  were 
unknown;  and  of  walking  out  of  the  river,  cool, 

i5 


1 6     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

and  refreshed,  to  dress — he  had  never  told  any  one 
that — in  white  silk  from  head  to  foot.  Nothing 
but  the  smoothest  silk  would  do.  He  had  seen 
that  silk  in  imagination  glimmering  with  the  sheen 
of  a  fine  pearl.  He  smiled  now  at  the  extravagance 
of  that  fancy,  but  the  temptation  to  buy  an  entirely 
new  outfit  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  He  had 
deserved  it.  The  impulse  marked  his  real  recovery 
from  the  effects  of  the  war. 

The  world  owed  him  five  years  of  youth !  That 
was  the  true  defence  of  his  action  in  leaving  Peck- 
ham.  He  saw  his  justification  with  astounding 
clearness  as  he  stod  on  Westminster  Bridge  looking 
up  the  river,  half  an  hour  before  his  train  was  timed 
to  leave  Charing  Cross — the  train  that  was  to  take 
him  to  Hartling  for  his  promised  week-end.  In  a 
re-action  against  his  orgie  of  spending,  he  had  come 
as  far  as  that  by  tram,  lugging  his  new  kit-bag  and 
dressing-case.  The  tram  would  have  taken  him 
on  to  Charing  Cross,  but  when  it  had  stopped  close 
to  his  old  hospital,  he  had  felt  an  urgent  desire  to 
see  the  river  from  the  old  standpoint.  The  thought 
of  his  bags  had  not  deterred  him.  He  was  bursting 
with  vigour  and  energy  that  morning. 

Society,  the  World,  Life  owed  him  five  years  for 
those  he  had  given.  The  years  from  twenty-two 
to  twenty-seven.  He  had  joined  up  in  August, 
19 14,  had  been  sent  down  to  Salisbury  Plain  for  his 
training,  and  had  been  in  France  by  the  summer  of 
next  year.  He  had  been  lucky  in  some  ways.  He 
had  not  been  wounded  or  gassed  or  suffered  from 
shell-shock,  and  in  the  following  winter  he  had  been 
combed  out  and  sent  back  to  the  hospital  for  two 
years  to  finish  his  training,  before  returning  to 
France   as    a   Lieutenant  in   the    R.A.M.C.      But 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     17 

looking  back  now,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
had  no  relaxation  in  all  that  time.  He  had  taken 
the  war  too  seriously  and  the  shadow  of  it  had  lain 
over  him.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  he  would  not 
have  joined  dear  old  Bob  Somers  on  the  very  day 
that  he  had  been  demobilised.  He  had  got  the  habit 
of  being  strenuous  and  self-sacrificing  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  and  the  habit,  or  whatever  it  was,  had 
apparently  dropped  from  him  almost  miraculously 
in  the  course  of  that  conversation.  It  was  unques- 
tionably gone.  He  felt  himself,  unexpectedly  and 
delightfully,  not  only  free  but  also  young  again.  He 
must  write  to  Bob  and  explain  that  theory  of  the 
lost  years  of  youth  and  the  world's  debit  account. 
He  would  not  be  hard  on  his  debtor.  He  would 
not  exact  a  full  repayment  of  the  original  loan.  He 
would  take  only  two  years.  After  that  he  would 
go  back  to  the  strenuous  habit  of  self-sacrifice  and 
leave  his  youth  behind. 

He  could  recover  the  very  spirit  of  it  in  this  place. 
How  often  he  had  glanced  down  from  the  end  of 
a  ward  and  taken  back  to  his  work  a  picture  of  the 
river,  of  the  bridge,  or  of  the  Gothic  dignities  of 
the  Houses  of  Parliament.  In  retrospect  those 
pictures  were  all  coloured  with  the  vivid  emotions 
of  youth.  He  could  place  some  of  them  with  the 
distinctness  of  a  clearly  remembered  dream.  There 
was,  for  instance,  that  wonderful  morning  in  Feb- 
ruary, mild  and  clear  as  a  day  in  April,  associated 
with  the  thought  that  he  was  playing  for  his  hospital 
in  one  of  the  "Rugger"  cup  ties  that  afternoon. 
Great  days,  those  were;  and  in  effect,  he  was 
physically  little  older  now  than  he  was  then.  He 
was  splendidly  fit. 

He  laid  hold  again  of  his  two  bags,  and  strode 
triumphantly  across  the  bridge. 


1 8     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

And  that  mood  held,  even  mounted,  unchecked 
by  the  deliberations  of  the  South-Eastern  and 
Chatham  train  service.  Indeed,  the  semi-torpid 
movements  of  the  railway  servants  on  the  branch 
line  to  which  he  changed  at  the  junction  afforded 
a  pleasant  contrast  to  his  own  exuberance.  He  was 
beginning  life  again.  Everything  was  coming  right. 
He  had  visions  of  some  delightful,  improbable  en- 
largement of  his  condition.  Old  Kenyon  might  take 
a  fancy  to  him.  Some  one  in  the  house,  some  special 
favourite  of  the  old  man's,  might  be  taken  seriously 
ill,  and  Arthur  Woodroffe,  the  brilliant  young  gen- 
eral practitioner  from  Peckham,  would  work  a 
miracle  at  the  eleventh  hour.  Old  Mr  Kenyon's 
gratitude  would  take  a  practical  form,  and  the  thing 
was  done.  There  were  other  variants  of  the  dream, 
but  this  seemed  to  be  the  most  promising. 

A  car  was  waiting  for  him  at  Harding  Station, 
but  neither  his  aunt  nor  any  of  his  connections  by 
marriage  had  come  to  meet  him.  Arthur  had  his 
bags  put  into  the  tonneau  and  sat  in  front.  He 
wanted  to  talk  to  some  one,  and  found  the  chauffeur 
quite  willing  for  conversation.  They  began  with 
the  obvious  subject  of  motors  and  presently  the 
chauffeur  volunteered  the  statement  that  the  Vaux- 
hall  in  which  they  were  riding  was  not  their  best  car. 

"Use  this  for  station  work  and  short  trips  mostly, 
sir,"  he  said.  "But  Mr  Kenyon  always  has  the 
Rolls-Royce  for  going  up  to  town.  Never  goes  any 
other  way.  Wonderful  old  gentleman,  Mr  Ken- 
yon, sir." 

"I  haven't  seen  him  for  twenty  years,"  Arthur 
said.    "He's  getting  on  for  ninety,  isn't  he?" 

"Ninety-one  last  October,  sir,"  the  chauffeur  told 
him,  "and  he'd  make  a  good  seventy  in  a  manner  of 
speaking.    A  bit  absent-minded  sometimes,  he  don't 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     19 

always  hear  you  when  you  speak  to  him;  but  no 
doubt  that's  because  he's  thinking  o'  something  else. 
He's  not  what  you  call  deaf,  not  in  the  least." 

"Good  Lord.  Wonderful!"  Arthur  commented. 
His  mind  was  engaged  in  framing  a  tentative  essay 
on  the  causes  of  disability  in  old  age,  more  par- 
ticularly with  reference  to  arterio-sclerosis,  but  he 
reserved  that  as  being  a  shade  too  technical. 
"Though  there's  no  real  reason,  you  know,"  he  said, 
"why  we  shouldn't  live  to  be  a  hundred  or  even  a 
hundred  and  twenty.  There's  a  fellow  in  Asia 
Minor  who  is  supposed  to  be  a  hundred  and  fifty." 

"I  suppose  not,  sir,"  the  chauffeur  replied  without 
enthusiasm,  and  added,  apparently  as  an  after- 
thought, "You're  a  doctor,  I  was  told,  sir." 

Arthur  nodded.  "I  haven't  come  down  here  pro- 
fessionally, though,"  he  said. 

"No,  sir;  I  shouldn't  say  as  Mr  Kenyon  had 
much  faith  in  doctors  .  .  ."  The  chauffeur's  sen- 
tence tailed  off  on  a  high  note,  with  an  effect  of 
there  being  more  to  come ;  also  he  reduced  the  pace 
of  the  car  as  if  he  had  something  of  importance 
to  add  before  they  reached  the  house. 

"I've  wondered  sometimes,  sir,"  he  continued, 
after  a  short  pause,  "whether  he  oughtn't  to — to 
take  advice,  as  they  say.  Them  fits  of  absent- 
mindedness  I  was  telling  you  about,  for  instance, 
come  on  very  queer  sometimes.  It's  like  as  if  he 
was  sound  asleep  with  his  eyes  wide  open.  Scared 
me  once  or  twice  he  has.  I  thought  perhaps  being 
a  doctor  you  might  be  able  to  say  if  it  was  anything 
serious.    Of  course,  being  ninety-one  .  .  ." 

Arthur  would  have  liked  to  give  a  ready  diagnosis 
of  this  abnormal  condition,  but  his  expertise  was 
not  equal  to  the  task,  and  he  fell  back  on  the  usual 
defence  of  his  profession. 


20     THE  PRISONERS  OF  H ART LING 

"Couldn't  possibly  say  without  examining  him," 
he  said.  "It  might  be  due  to  one  of  several  con- 
ditions." 

The  car  running  down  a  slight  incline  with  a  free 
engine  had  almost  stopped.  The  chauffeur  appeared 
to  be  deep  in  thought. 

"At  Mr  Kenyon's  age  .  .  ."  he  began  tenta- 
tively 

"One  would  not  expect  him  to  be  quite  the  man 
he  was  at  twenty-eight,"  Arthur  supplied. 

"Exactly,  sir,  one  wouldn't,"  the  chauffeur  replied 
in  the  tone  of  one  aroused  to  a  consciousness  of  his 
immediate  duties;  and  he  let  in  the  clutch  and 
speeded  up  the  car  with  an  effect  of  turning  his 
attention  to  more  pressing  affairs. 

For  the  last  quarter  of  a  mile  they  had  been 
running  alongside  a  high  brick  wall,  and  as  they 
now  swerved  in  between  a  pair  of  wide-open  iron 
gates,  Arthur  realised  that  the  rather  ugly  wall  was 
the  boundary  of  Mr  Kenyon's  property. 

The  contrast  between  the  outside  and  the  inside 
was,  as  perhaps  it  was  designed  to  be,  sudden  and 
startling.  From  the  dusty  side  road  flanked  on 
one  side  by  that  erection  of  crude  brickwork,  he 
was  transported  without  any  kind  of  preparation 
into  a  finished  and  extensively  cultivated  garden 
of  unusual  extent  and  beauty.  Seen  from  that 
entrance  by  the  little  lodge,  the  garden  wonderfully 
displayed  itself.  It  lay  on  a  moderate  slope,  lifting 
up  in  a  steady  rise  from  the  entrance  gates  to  the 
climax  of  the  house,  that  spread  itself  along  the 
crest  of  the  hill  with  an  effect  of  dignified  watchful- 
ness. And  the  designer  of  that  garden  had  had  fine 
natural  material  to  work  upon  other  than  the  slope 
that  provided  the  excuse  for  that  triple  tier  of 
terraces  with  their  shallow  stone   steps   and  low 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     21 

balustrading.  He  had  had,  for  example,  a  fine 
selection  of  forest  trees,  elm,  oak,  and  beech,  with 
as  a  contrast  a  plantation  of  larches  and  silver  birch 
bounding  the  estate  on  the  east  side.  Also  he  had 
had  an  abundance  of  running  water.  A  little  river, 
its  point  of  entrance  hidden  by  the  close  shrubberies 
and  plantations  that  shut  out  all  sight  of  the  ugly 
boundary  wall  on  the  garden  side,  cascaded  not  too 
artificially,  out  of  obscurity  into  the  sunlight,  ran 
as  a  decently  restrained  little  river  for  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  between  close-cut  lawns,  the  upper  one  of 
which  was  bordered  by  a  row  of  graceful  wych  elms; 
and  then  spread  itself  into  an  irregular  lake,  over 
which  the  main  drive  to  the  house  was  carried  by 
the  spring  of  a  slender  bridge.  But  any  catalogue 
of  that  garden's  innumerable  "features"  must  in- 
evitably convey  a  false  impression.  Whoever  had 
planned  it,  had  had  the  genius  to  conceive  his  effect 
as  a  whole.  It  was  arranged,  composed,  to  display 
itself  from  the  entrance  lodge  as  a  broad  mass  that 
was  presented  to  the  mind  as  a  miniature  park, 
abounding  with  natural  opportunities,  which  had 
for  many  years  been  scrupulously  kept,  planted,  and 
mown.  And  seen  thus  on  the  broad,  it  could  not 
be  classified  as  belonging  either  to  the  formal  or 
the  landscape  type;  rather  it  had  the  air  of  a  dili- 
gently cultivated  suburban  garden  enormously  en- 
larged. There  was  something  new,  bright,  almost 
deliberately  factitious  in  its  pretensions. 

The  chauffeur  had  but  one  comment  to  offer  as 
they  spun  up  the  long  curve  of  the  gravel  drive  to 
the  house.  As  they  crossed  the  stone  bridge  over 
the  pond,  he  pointed  to  the  right,  indicating  a 
rough-cast  and  half-timbered  building  nearly  hidden 
by  the  trees  of  the  larch  plantation  into  which  the 
little  river  plunged  out  of  sight. 


22     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"Power  house,  sir,"  he  explained.  "We  do  all 
our  own  lighting  and  pumping  by  water-power. 
Pleased  to  show  you  over,  sir,  if  you  have  time. 
Nice  little  plant  we've  got." 

Arthur  found  a  sense  of  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  of  the  completeness  of  the  place. 


Ill 


Ill 

ARTHUR  remembered  the  bridge  and  the  lake 
now  that  he  saw  them  again.  He  had  had 
some  vague  recollection  of  an  immense  sheet  of 
water  and  an  equally  immense  bridge  that  he  had 
vaguely  connected — he  thought,  mistakenly — with 
his  boyhood  visits  to  Hartling.  The  only  other  thing 
he  remembered  was  a  colossal  elephant's  pad  in  the 
hall.  He  found  it  still  there,  and  in  the  interval 
of  twenty  years,  it  had  diminished  less  than  the  lake. 
The  detail  of  the  house  itself  had  apparently  left 
little  impression  on  his  boyish  mind.  As  he  glanced 
round  the  hall,  he  had  an  uncertain  feeling  of  being 
familiar  with  that  massive  staircase,  but  he  had  no 
idea  how  the  rooms  were  placed. 

His  bags  had  gone  round  to  some  other  entrance 
with  the  car;  and  as  he  gave  his  keys  to  the  butler 
Arthur  realised  the  splendid  support  of  his  ex- 
pensive outfit.  It  made  a  difference,  gave  him 
assurance, a  sense  of  being  at  home  in  these  sur- 
roundings. That  outfit  was  worth  the  money  if 
only  for  the  one  week-end.  It  would  have  been 
absolutely  rotten  to  have  spent  his  whole  time  in 
trying  to  live  down  shabby  clothes. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  perfect  crowd  of  people 
in  the  room  into  which  he  was  shown  by  the  butler 
after  having  elected  to  go  straight  in  to  tea.  He 
presumed  it  was  a  regular  week-end  party. 

His  aunt  got  up  when  he  was  announced  and 
came  across  the  room  to  greet  him.  She  was  a  little 
tired-looking  woman  with  a  distinct  likeness  to  his 

25 


26     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

own  mother,  who  had  died  in  the  first  year  of  the 
war.  He  had  always  attributed  that  gray,  pinched, 
slightly  distracted  air,  in  his  mother's  case,  to  the 
difficulties  of  life  in  a  country  parish  on  insufficient 
means;  but  as  his  aunt  had  the  same  air  it  was 
probably  a  family  characteristic. 

Mrs  Kenyon's  voice  and  manner  also  reminded 
him  of  his  mother. 

"How  you've  altered,  Arthur,''  she  said  in  a  low, 
even  voice. 

"In  twenty  years,  aunt,"  he  reminded  her  cheer- 
fully, "one  grows  a  certain  amount." 

"I've  seen  you  since  then,"  she  said  quietly,  "in 
town.  Your  poor  mother  brought  you  to  see  me 
off  at  Charing  Cross :  your  first  year  at  the  hospital, 
I  think  it  was.    Now,  come  and  have  some  tea." 

She  led  him  towards  the  tea-table  as  she  spoke, 
and  introduced  him  in  passing  to  her  husband,  a 
bald,  rather  untidy  man,  who  was  lying  back  in  an 
arm-chair.  "How're  you?"  he  said  indifferently 
to  the  newly  recovered  nephew.  "Little  chap  in 
knickerbockers,  about  three  foot  nothing,  last  time 
I  saw  you." 

Arthur  smiled  his  acknowledgment  of  this  remi- 
niscence with,  he  hoped,  an  effect  of  not  caring 
whether  he  was  remembered  or  not.  These  people 
were  certainly  not  effusive;  but  probably  this  was 
their  usual  manner.  The  more  money  you  had  the 
less  you  troubled  about  manners  and  personal  ap- 
pearance. His  uncle  had  been  wearing  a  soft, 
rather  crumpled  collar  and  old  flannel  bags.  Miss 
Kenyon,  the  eldest  of  the  family,  was  presiding  at 
the  tea-table.  She  was  a  tall,  white-haired  woman 
of  sixty  or  so,  with  what  Arthur  mentally  described 
to  himself  as  a  "domineering  expression."  She 
hardly  smiled  as  she  shook  hands  with  him. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     27 

"I  remember  your  first  visit  here  very  well," 
she  said,  and  he  grasped  at  the  opportunity  to 
avoid  the  usual  futilities  of  an  opening  conversa- 
tion. 

"Only  the  vaguest  recollection  of  it  myself,  Miss 
Kenyon,"  he  replied  brightly,  as  he  accepted  the 
tea  she  offered  him.  "I  dare  say  that's  because  my 
earlier  memories  have  been  rather  overlaid  by  the 
experiences  of  the  last  six  years."  He  felt  that  he 
had  taken  rather  a  sound  line.  He  could  see  chances 
of  quite  good  talking  ahead,  supported  by  a  backing 
of  medical  and  psychological  authority. 

Miss  Kenyon,  however,  cut  him  off  by  saying  in 
her  cold,  clear  voice,  "One  wouldn't  expect  you  to 
remember  much,  you  were  only  five." 

He  couldn't  believe  it.  "Oh !  surely  a  lot  more 
than  that,"  he  protested.  "About  nine  or  ten,  I 
thought." 

"Jubilee  year,"  Miss  Kenyon  affirmed  quietly, 
but  with  an  air  of  final  authority.     "In  August." 

Arthur  did  not  care  to  contradict  her  again,  but 
he  was  still  unconvinced.  "Was  it  really?"  he  asked. 
"Astonishing  how  one  forgets!" 

Miss  Kenyon  was  not  to  be  deceived  by  this 
simulation  of  agreement. 

"Don't  you  remember,  Hannah?"  she  asked, 
turning  to  her  sister-in-law,  who  had  sat  down  near 
them,  and  was  apparently  brooding  over  the  empti- 
ness of  life. 

Mrs  Kenyon  started.  "Remember,  Esther?  Oh! 
when  Arthur  came  before,"  she  said.  "Not  very 
distinctly,  I  am  afraid.  But  he  was  quite  a  little 
fellow,  in  a  holland  tunic.  I  remember  that  because 
he  got  himself  very  dirty  one  morning,  and  poor 
Emily  hadn't  got  a  change  for  him." 

Miss  Kenyon  nodded  calmly.    "In  any  case,"  she 


28     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

remarked,  "we  can  verify  the  date  without  difficulty. 
I  shall  have  a  note  of  it  in  my  diary." 

"Esther  is  always  accurate  in  her  facts,"  her 
sister-in-law  murmured.  "Her  memory  is  simply 
wonderful." 

Miss  Kenyon  did  not  acknowledge  this  compli- 
ment. She  was  looking  out  through  the  great 
bay-window  that  was  one  of  the  principal  features 
of  the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting.  Her  ex- 
pression was  one  of  conscious  authority — supreme, 
unquestionable. 

Arthur  felt  snubbed,  and,  for  the  moment  could 
think  of  no  other  suitable  topic  of  conversation. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  advisable  to  admit  that  he  was 
wrong,  before  he  tried  another  subject. 

"Stupid  of  me,"  he  tried.  "But  as  I  was  saying 
just  now,  the  experiences  of  the  past  few  years  have 
rather  altered  one's  scale  of  values.  I  probably 
mixed  up  my  visit  here  with  some  other  visit  I 
paid  with  my  mother  when  I  was  a  bit  older.  One 
does  that,  sometimes." 

He  paused.  Miss  Kenyon  was  regarding  him 
with  a  quiet,  detached  interest.  It  was  evident  that 
she  had  no  further  intention  of  interrupting  him  if 
he  cared  to  go  on  talking,  but  that  he  must  not  ex- 
pect any  sort  of  response. 

Arthur  dropped  his  thesis  with  a  slight  sense  of 
irritation  and  turned  to  his  aunt. 

"Aren't  there  some  cousins  of  mine  I  ought  to 
know?"  he  asked. 

She  indicated  her  two  children  with  what  Arthur 
thought  to  be  a  singular  lack  of  enthusiasm.  "That 
is  Hubert  by  the  fireplace.  Elizabeth  is  over  there 
in  the  window.  I  will  introduce  you  to  them  when 
you  have  finished  your  tea." 

Arthur  took  stock  of  his  two  cousins  with  atten- 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     29 

tion.  He  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  he  were  not 
in  for  an  uncommonly  depressing  week-end.  His 
observations  of  the  third  generation  did  little  to 
reassure  him. 

Hubert  was  a  young  man  of  about  twenty-five, 
with  a  long,  melancholy  face.  He  was  dressed  in 
rough  tweeds,  and  wearing  cloth  gaiters,  that  gave 
him  the  look  of  a  man  whose  interests  lay  among 
horses.  And  in  Arthur's  experience  men  who  talked 
about  horses  were  quite  unable  to  talk  about  any- 
thing else.  Elizabeth,  a  rather  pretty  girl,  probably 
two  or  three  years  younger  than  her  brother,  was 
more  interesting,  but  she,  too,  had  the  same  ex- 
pression of  lassitude. 

Arthur,  still  brightly  aware  of  his  newly  recov- 
ered youth,  felt  as  if  he  would  like  to  take  her  by  the 
arm  and  run  with  her  out  into  the  sunlight;  shake 
her,  make  her  sing  and  dance,  force  her  to  show 
some  signs  of  enjoying  her  consciousness  of  life. 

"And  the  little  man  talking  to  Hubert,  who  is 
he?"  Arthur  had  no  urgent  desire  to  hurry  the 
introduction  to  his  cousins,  and  he  was  thoroughly 
enjoying  the  various  cakes  provided  for  tea. 

He  had  not  tasted  cakes  like  these  since  the  war. 
Also,  Miss  Kenyon  had  now  gone  from  the  table 
and  left  the  room,  and  he  felt  more  free  to  talk. 
Aunt  Hannah  might  be  rather  dull  but  she  was  at 
least  reasonably  polite. 

"That's  Charles  Turner/'  she  told  him.  "He 
married  Mr  Kenyon's  second  daughter,  Katherine 
— she's  over  there  in  the  window  by  Elizabeth. 
Charles  is  the  uncle  of  the  present  Lord  Greening, 
you  know." 

Arthur  did  not  know,  but  he  nodded  as  he  re- 
plied, "Are  they  staying  here  for  the  week-end?" 

"Oh!  no,"  Mrs  Kenyon  said.    "We  all  live  here. 


go     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

There  is  no  one  from  outside  here  this  week-end 
— except  yourself." 

Was  that  the  reason  for  their  tepidity?  Arthur 
reflected.  He  was  some  one  "from  the  outside" 
intruding  upon  the  family  circle.  Perhaps,  in  spite 
of  their  wealth,  the  Kenyon  family  mixed  very  little 
with  the  outside  world.  They  were  a  complete 
group  living  within  the  enceinte  of  that  ten-foot 
brick  wall,  self-sufficient,  and  it  might  be  a  little 
self-conscious  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger.  That 
general  air  of  lassitude  and  of — there  was  some 
other  element  in  it  that  he  could  not  quite  define — 
might  be  the  effect  of  shyness  which,  as  he  knew, 
often  took  strange  forms.  Not  that  Miss  Kenyon 
had  appeared  to  suffer  from  any  known  form  of 
shyness.    She  was  evidently  an  overbearing  woman. 

"You're  quite  a  large  family  party,  aunt,"  he 
commented  to  keep  the  conversation  going. 

Mrs  Kenyon  blinked  as  if  he  had  in  some  way 
touched  upon  a  sore  subject.  She  gave,  however, 
no  hint  of  that  in  her  reply.  "And  there's  Eleanor, 
whom  you  haven't  seen  yet,"  she  said.  "She  acts 
as  a  sort  of  secretary  to  Mr  Kenyon.  She's  the 
daughter  of  James,  the  second  son.  He  and  his 
wife  are  both  dead,  and  so  is  their  elder  daughter 
Margery."  She  looked  at  her  son  as  she  added, 
"Charles  and  Katherine  have  a  son  too,  but  he  does 
not  live  with  us.  He  is  acting  as  a  clerk  to  a  stock- 
broker. Quite  a  good  position,  I  believe.  Have 
you  finished  your  tea?  I  am  sure  Hubert  is  waiting 
to  talk  to  you." 

"All  but,  aunt,"  Arthur  said.  "Sorry  to  bother 
you  with  all  these  questions,  but  I  want  to  know 
who's  who  to  begin  with.  And  Mr  Kenyon?  He 
isn't  down  here  of  course." 

"He  never  takes  tea,"  Mrs  Kenyon  said;  "and 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     31 

we  don't  see  a  great  deal  of  him  at  any  time.  I 
don't  mean  that  he  is  in  any  way  an  invalid  or  a 
recluse,  you  know,  but  at  his  age  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  precisely,"  Arthur  agreed.  His  aunt's 
sentence  had  tailed  out  into  nothing,  in  much  the 
same  tone  as  that  of  the  chauffeur  when  he  had 
hesitated  over  precisely  the  same  words.  At  his 
age.  .  .  .  The  inference  undoubtedly  was  that 
anything  might  happen  when  a  man  reaches  the 
age  of  ninety-one. 

uHe  keeps  awfully  fit,  though,  doesn't  he?" 
Arthur  went  on. 

"Yes.  He's  remarkably  well  and  active  .  .  ." 
his  aunt  replied,  paused  again,  and  then  concluded 
firmly,  ubut  you  will  see  him  at  dinner." 

Arthur  noted  again  that  effect  of  some  unstated 
contingent. 

Possibly  his  aunt,  also,  was  a  trifle  uneasy  about 
the  old  man's  health. 

"I've  really  finished  at  last,  Aunt  Hannah,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile. 

She  did  not  return  the  smile,  but  rose  at  once 
with  an  appearance  of  relief.  Arthur  felt  as  if  he 
ought  to  apologise  for  having  bored  her. 

His  cousin  Hubert  greeted  him,  as  Arthur  had 
expected,  without  enthusiasm.  He  turned  almost 
at  once  to  the  Hon.  Charles  Turner,  hoping  that 
there  he  might  perhaps  find  some  kind  of  response. 

Turner  was  a  small  man  whose  age  might  have 
been  anything  between  sixty  and  seventy,  but  he 
at  least,  obviously  took  trouble  over  his  dress,  and 
his  rather  elvish  face  was  crinkled  into  an  expression 
that  gave  promise  of  a  rather  satirical  humour. 
Once  or  twice  Arthur  had  caught  Turner's  gaze 
resting  upon  him  with  a  slightly  quizzical  look. 

"You've  gone  in  for  medicine,  I  hear,"  Turner 


32     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

began,  and  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  continued: 
"Depressing  kind  of  profession,  isn't  it?  Always 
listening  to  other  people's  complaints?" 

Arthur  had  never  considered  that  aspect  of  the 
doctor's  life.  "Oh  II  don't  know,"  he  said.  "There 
are  other  things  besides  diagnosis.    I  mean  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  quite,"  Turner  cut  in;  "but  you're  always 
with  sick  people.  That's  what  you're  for.  Don't 
you  find  yourself  getting  in  the  way  of  looking  at 
every  one  as  a  possible  patient?" 

"Lord,  no,"  Arthur  replied,  laughing.  "You 
don't  get  so  wrapped  up  in  it  as  all  that." 

"You  don't,  perhaps,"  Turner  said.  "You're 
young  yet,  and  I  dare  say  you  can  drop  your  work 
when  you  are  away  from  it.  But  I  know  a  fellow, 
a  Harley  Street  specialist,  great  authority  on  the 
heart  .  .  ." 

"Sir  Stephen  Hunt?"  Arthur  put  in. 

"That's  the  chap,"  Turner  agreed.  "Well,  he's  a 
terrible  fellow.  You'll  see  him  looking  round  a 
dinner  table  and  spotting  symptoms.  I  remember 
sitting  near  him  at  dinner  one  night,  and  after  the 
women  had  gone,  he  leant  over  to  me  and  said, 
'D'you  know  how  long  Lady  Spendale  has  been 
suffering  from' — let's  see  what  did  he  call  it — some 
sort  of  goitre?" 

"Exophthalmic,  possibly,"  Arthur  supplied. 

"I  believe  it  was.  She  had  rather  protuberant 
eyes,  I  remember." 

"That's  it,"  Arthur  confirmed  him. 

"Well,  naturally  I  didn't  even  know  she'd  got  it, 
if  she  had,"  Turner  continued.  "But  what  I  mean 
is — ghastly  sort  of  life  to  lead,  always  trying  to 
spot  something  wrong  with  people's  hearts  or  what 
not.  Now,  d'you  mean  to  tell  me  honestly  that  you 
can  help  looking  out  for  symptoms  like  that,  more 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     33 

or  less?  Supposing  I'd  got  protuberant  eyes,  for 
instance?" 

"That's  such  a  frightfully  obvious  thing,"  Arthur 
objected.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  aren't  so 
many  diseases  that  can  be  diagnosed  like  that  at 
sight.  And — and — well,  one  rather  gets  out  of  the 
way  of  looking  for  them  when  one's  off  duty.  As 
a  student,  I'll  admit,  one  did  a  certain  amount  of 
showing  off;  kind  of  a  game,  you  know,  trying  to 
spot  the  symptoms  you'd  just  been  reading  up.  But 
one  soon  dropped  that." 

"H'm!  Well!  And  so  you  like  doctoring,  do 
you?    Got  a  practice,  or  what?"  Turner  asked. 

"No,  nothing  at  the  moment,"  Arthur  said. 
"I've  been  helping  a  friend  down  in  Peckham,  but 
I've  chucked  that  for  the  time  being." 

"Loose  end?    What?"  Turner  inquired. 

"Got  some  notion  of  going  to  Canada,"  Arthur 
said. 

Turner  pursed  his  mouth  and  looked  down  at  his 
neat  patent-leather  shoes.  "Fine  climate  and  splen- 
did opportunities  there,"  he  commented  softly. 
"Free,  open-air  life  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Just 
suit  a  vigorous  young  chap  like  you,  I  should  say." 

Hubert  Kenyon,  who  had  been  gloomily  listening 
to  the  conversation  without  attempting  to  join  in 
it,  drew  a  long  breath  and  exhaled  it  in  a  deep  sigh. 

"That  how  you  feel  about  it?"  Arthur  inquired. 

"I?     Oh!     How  d'you  mean?"  Hubert  asked. 

"Blowing  a  bit,  weren't  you,  at  the  mention  of 
Canada?"  Arthur  said. 

"Oh!  That!  I  don't  know,"  Hubert  replied, 
without  throwing  much  light  on  the  meaning  of  his 
sigh. 

The  conversation  was  dropping  again.  Arthur 
felt  the  silence  coming,  and  did  not  care.     He  was 


34     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

a  guest  and  it  was  the  family's  duty  to  entertain 
him.  But  what  was  the  matter  with  them  all?  Or 
with  him? 

He  looked  down  the  room.  Miss  Kenyon  had 
come  back,  and  they  were  all  sitting  about,  reading 
or  working  in  an  uninterested  kind  of  way — doing 
something  or  other  as  if  it  did  not  matter  whether 
the  thing  was  done  or  not.  What  was  it  the  place 
and  the  people  reminded  him  of?  Yes!  It  was 
that  boarding-house  he  had  stayed  in  at  Scarbor- 
ough one  winter.  He  had  been  there  for  a  week 
with  his  mother.  But  that  was  a  very  different  kind 
of  place,  and  those  were  very  different  people.  This 
room  was  beautifully  designed  and  furnished,  and 
these  relations  and  connections  of  his  were  all  rich 
and  presumably  care-free.  Nevertheless  there  was 
something  that  reminded  him  of  that  Scarborough 
boarding-house.  Something  in  the  pose  of  those 
indifferently  diligent  women,  perhaps? 

The  voice  of  Hubert  broke  in  on  his  meditations. 

"I  don't  know  what  we're  waiting  here  for?"  he 
said.  "Care  to  come  and  have  a  look  at  the  gar- 
den?" 

"Thanks.  Yes,  I  should,"  Arthur  replied  cheer- 
fully. 

He  had  it  now.  They  all  had  the  effect  of  waiting 
for  something;  for  some  climax,  or  change,  or  in- 
terruption; of  waiting  interminably  for  some  known 
or  unknown  crisis  that  might  never  develop.  Mr 
Turner  was  politely  yawning  as  he  stooped  to  pick 
up  the  Times. 


IV 


IV 

THE  garden  was  certainly  wonderful.  The 
modern  house,  although  it  had  a  well-designed 
south  elevation,  in  which  effective  use  had  been  made 
of  mullioned  oriel  windows  corbelled  out  from  the 
first  floor,  was  less  successful  inside — if  the  archi- 
tect's intention  had  been  to  give  the  impression  of 
age  and  dignity.  The  decoration  and  arrangement 
conveyed  the  effect  of  a  really  first-class  hotel  rather 
than  that  of  an  Elizabethan  Manor,  or  even  of  a, 
gentleman's  country-house.  This  may  have  been 
due  to  the  fact  that  it  had  been  built  in  the  late 
'seventies  of  the  last  century,  a  bad  period  for 
country-house  architecture;  or  it  may  have  been  a 
result  of  the  exercise  of  old  Mr  Kenyon's  domestic 
taste  in  furniture  arrangement. 

No  such  indictment  could  be  brought  against  the 
garden.  It  was  unique  in  its  variety — full  of  con- 
trasts and  surprises;  a  place  to  explore,  and  to  get 
lost  in,  but  more  particularly  a  place  that  had  a 
dozen  settings  from  which  the  seeker  might  choose 
a  mood. 

Arthur,  finding  new  cause  for  astonishment  and 
rapture  at  every  turn,  was  enthusiastic  in  his  ex- 
pressions of  admiration.  After  French  battlefields, 
base  hospitals,  and  Peckham,  this  garden  seemed 
to  him  a  true  fairyland. 

Even  the  melancholy  Hubert  became  a  trifle  more 
cheerful. 

uYes,  it  is  pretty  good,  isn't  it?"  he  agreed. 
"  'Course  it  has  been  worked  at,  day  and  night  al- 
most, you  might  say,  for  forty  years." 

37 


38      THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"What  happened  to  it  during  the  war?"  Arthur 
asked. 

"Four  of  our  gardeners  were  over  age,"  Hubert 
said,  "and  we  got  boys  to  work  under  them.  At 
first,  that  is.  We  had  some  wounded  Tommies 
afterwards." 

"You  weren't  in  it  yourself?"  Arthur  asked. 

Hubert  coloured  faintly.  "No,  my  grandfather 
got  me  a  job  in  a  Government  office,"  he  said.  "I 
wanted  to  join  up,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me.  I'm 
sort  of  steward  to  this  place,  you  know.  There  are 
a  couple  of  farms  and  so  on  to  look  after.  Not  that 
I  have  much  to  do.  However,  what  I  mean  is  that 
my  grandfather  made  a  tremendous  point  of  keep- 
ing me  out  of  the  Army,  and  it  was  rather  difficult 
for  me  to  disobey  him  right  out.  He's — he's  not 
altogether  easy  to  handle." 

"Bit  of  an  autocrat  in  his  way?"  Arthur  sug- 
gested. 

Hubert  looked  uneasy.  "In  a  way,  yes,"  he 
agreed;  and  Arthur  inferred  that  a  tactful  change 
of  subject  was  advisable. 

"Have  you  got  names  for  all  these  different  parts 
of  the  garden?"  he  asked,  choosing  the  most  ob- 
vious topic. 

Hubert  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  the  ques- 
tion. He  was  frowning  and  fidgeting;  he  had  the 
look  of  a  weak  man  trying  to  make  an  important 
decision. 

"You  don't  know  him,  do  you?"  he  said.  "What 
I  mean  is,  you've  never  been  here  since  you  came 
as  a  boy,  and  you've  never  kept  in  with  us  or  any- 
thing?" 

"No,  he's  to  all  intents  and  purposes  an  utter 
stranger  to  me,"  Arthur  agreed. 

"Just  come  down  to  have  a  look  at  us,  then?" 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     39 

Hubert  continued,  with  a  feeble  affectation  of 
sprightliness. 

4 'Well,  you  and  my  aunt  are  about  the  only 
relations  I've  got,"  Arthur  replied.  "And  as  Aunt 
Hannah  wrote  out  of  the  blue,  as  it  were,  and 
invited  me  to  come  down,  I  was  glad  of  the  op- 
portunity." 

"Oh!  yes,  exactly,"  Hubert  said.  "I  can  under- 
stand that  all  right." 

Arthur  was  aware  again  of  that  sense  of  irrita- 
tion that  had  come  to  him  when  he  had  been  trying 
to  talk  to  Miss  Kenyon.  He  felt  as  if  his  cousin, 
in  another  manner,  was  also  opposing  him,  was  in 
some  way  suspicious  and  inimical. 

"Well  what  is  it  you  don't  understand?"  he  asked 
curtly. 

Hubert  smiled,  with  the  placatory  air  of  a  dog 
that  has  been  threatened.  He  was  standing  with 
his  feet  crossed  and  rocked  slowly  from  one  to  the 
other  as  he  spoke. 

"Nothing,"  he  said.  "Nothing,  I  was  just  won- 
dering if  you  wanted  the  old  man's  influence  for 
anything,  get  you  a  job  as  medical  attendant  to 
anyone  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"Good  Lord,  no,"  Arthur  returned  brusquely. 
"Never  entered  my  head  for  a  moment.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  that  I  thought  of  going  out  to  Canada  for 
a  year  or  two?" 

So  that  was  why  these  Kenyons  had  been  un- 
friendly. They  believed  that  he  had  come  down 
there  cadging  for  influence.  He  grew  warm  at  the 
thought  of  that  implication,  and  raised  his  voice 
slightly  as  he  continued : — 

"Pretty  rotten  aspersion  to  make  that,  wasn't 
it,  Hubert?  After  Aunt  Hannah  had  written  and 
invited  me  to  come  down?" 


40     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"Don't  see  anything  rotten  in  it.  Natural 
enough,"  Hubert  replied,  still  rocking  gently  and 
looking  down  at  his  crossed  ankles.  "However — 
sorry.  There's  no  need  to  get  excited  about  it." 
He  looked  up  and  added:  "Here's  Eleanor.  You 
haven't  met  her  yet." 

They  had  been  standing  in  a  little  cloister  of 
formal  garden,  shut  in  by  a  sturdy  box  hedge, 
pierced  only  by  two  openings  at  the  opposite  cor- 
ners, and  Arthur's  back  had  been  presented  to  the 
opening  through  which  they  had  entered.  He 
turned  with  a  touch  of  impatience  at  the  indication 
of  Hubert's  introduction,  to  meet  this  new  Kenyon 
connection — the  orphan  who  acted  as  secretary  to 
her  grandfather.  He  was  not  predisposed  in  her 
favour.  Hubert  had  put  a  new  idea  into  his  head 
by  accusing  him  of  cadging  for  influence.  Was  it 
not  probable  that  all  these  descendants  of  the  old 
man  were,  in  some  sense,  at  least,  trying  to  "keep 
in"  with  him,  trying  to  win  his  special  favour  for 
their  own  ends? 

But  at  his  first  sight  of  her,  Arthur  saw  that 
Eleanor  was  different  from  the  others.  There  was 
something  alive  and  individual  about  her,  she  had 
not  that  effect  of  a  slight  staleness  which  the  other 
members  of  the  family  seemed  to  convey. 

"This  is  Arthur  Woodroffe,"  Hubert  said,  com- 
pleting the  introduction. 

She  gave  Arthur  her  hand,  regarding  him,  he 
thought,  with  a  strangely  intent  look  of  anxiety. 

"I  heard  you  quarrelling  as  I  came,"  she  said. 
"Rather  soon,  isn't  it?" 

She  had  a  pleasant  voice,  with  a  musical,  soothing 
tone ;  the  voice  of  a  woman  who  would  make  a  good 
nurse,  Arthur  thought. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     41 

"I  don't  know  that  we'd  got  as  far  as  a  quarrel," 
he  said.  "I  confess  that  my  new-found  cousin, 
Hubert,  annoyed  me  rather." 

Hubert  raised  his  eyebrows.  He  had  not  moved 
when  Eleanor  joined  them,  and  still  stood  in  that 
uneasy  looking  pose  of  his.  "Can't  imagine  why," 
he  said.  "Only  asked  him  if  he  wanted  grand- 
father's influence  to  get  a  job  anywhere." 

Eleanor  frowned  faintly  and  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. "Oh !  my  good  Hubert,  how  unoriginal  of 
you,"  she  said. 

Arthur  was  faintly  perplexed  by  the  adjective. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "I  was  just  telling 
Hubert  that  what  I  want  to  do  is  to  go  out  to 
Canada." 

Eleanor's  expression  perceptibly  brightened.  She 
might  have  been  the  recipient  of  good  news.  "How 
splendid,"  she  said  warmly,  "to  go  to  a  new  and 
free  country  like  that." 

Arthur  accepted  that  statement  as  a  true  expres- 
sion of  feeling.  There  had  been  a  warmth,  an  air 
of  admiring  congratulation  in  her  tone,  that  en- 
chanted him  after  the  chilliness  of  his  reception  in 
the  drawing-room. 

"It  would  be  rather  a  jolly  adventure,"  he  said. 
"I've  got  enough  money  for  my  passage,  and  outfit, 
and  all  that,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  any 
difficulty  in  getting  a  post  of  some  kind  out  there." 

She  was  about  to  reply  when  Hubert  unhitched 
himself  and  remarking  that  he  had  something  to  do 
before  dinner,  wandered  aimlessly  away  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  lower  garden. 

For  a  moment  the  thread  of  the  conversation 
was  broken.  Both  Arthur  and  Eleanor  were  watch- 
ing the  departing  figure  of  their  cousin,  and,  as  often 


42      THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

happens  when  a  third  person  leaves  a  group,  the 
other  two  were  aware  of  an  impulse  to  speak  of  him. 

"Poor  old  Hubert,"  Eleanor  murmured  in  an 
undertone.  "There's  probably  nothing  in  the  world 
he  would  like  better  than  to  go  to  Canada." 

Arthur  was  surprised.  He  had  already  made 
some  sort  of  estimate  of  his  cousin's  character,  and 
sized  him  up  roughly  as  a  "feeble  sort  of  rotter." 

"Well,  then,  why  doesn't  he?"  he  asked. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  did,"  Eleanor 
replied,  looking  thoughtfully  across  the  formal 
garden.  "However,  I  dare  say  he'll  tell  you  about 
it  himself  when  he  knows  you  a  little  better.  You're 
— you're  rather  new  to  us  just  at  present.  We're 
so  secluded  here.  We  don't  very  often  see  people 
from  the  outside." 

Arthur  marked  that  repetition  of  his  aunt't 
phrase  with  a  slight  sense  of  uneasiness.  "Queer 
thing  to  say,"  he  remarked.  "Why  from  the  'out- 
side' ?  Aunt  Hannah  used  the  same  expression  at 
tea.  Sounds  rather  as  if  you  were  all  confined  in  a 
prison  or  an  asylum." 

Eleanor  blushed  and  bit  her  lip.  "Yes,  it's  a 
stupid  phrase,"  she  said  quickly.  "I  didn't  mean 
it  the  least  in  that  way.  Only  we  are  so — what 
shall  I  say? — so  self-sufficient.  We've  everything 
we  want,  nearly;  and — oh!  never  mind.  Is  this  as 
much  of  the  garden  as  you've  seen?"  She  led  him 
across  the  little  quadrangular  enclosure  as  she  con- 
tinued: "I  should  like  to  show  you  my  favourite 
place,  if  you  haven't  been  there  yet.  It's  just  a  little 
lower  down,  on  the  terrace,  overlooking  the  stream 
and  the  lake.  And  I  want  you  to  tel1  me  about 
Canada.  You're  a  full-fledged  doctor,  aren't  you? 
Aunt  Hannah  said  you  wrote  from  Peckham.  Were 
you  practising  there?" 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     43 

As  they  made  their  way  to  the  terrace  she  had 
indicated,  Arthur  told  her  something  of  his  work  in 
Peckham  and  of  his  reasons  for  wishing  to  leave  it. 
He  expected  sympathy  from  her,  but  he  found  none. 

"I  dare  say  it  was  dirty,"  was  her  comment — his 
insistence  on  that  aspect  had  demanded  a  reply — 
"but  it  was  work,  real  work.  You  were  doing  some 
good  in  the  world." 

They  had  reached  the  terrace  now,  and  from 
where  they  stood  they  overlooked  a  croquet  lawn 
— flush  and  smooth  as  a  green  carpet — bounded  on 
its  further  side  by  the  row  of  wych  elms  and  the 
stream.  Beyond,  they  could  see  the  falling  slope 
of  the  garden  down  to  the  shrubberies  that  hid  the 
wall;  but  from  this  point  there  was  no  vista  of  the 
rich  Sussex  landscape  without. 

Arthur  sighed.  "I  had  had  six  years  of  it,"  he 
said,  "and  I  had  a  sort  of  feeling  that  I  wanted  to 
— to  recover  my  youth  for  a  bit.  I  wanted  to  try 
something  of  this  sort  for  a  change." 

"Of  this  sort?"  she  repeated  on  a  note  of  per- 
plexity. 

"I  suppose  it's  impossible  for  you  to  realise  what 
it  means  to  me,"  he  replied.  "You've  had  it 
always.  You  think  just  because  this  is  what  you're 
used  to  and  perhaps  tired  of,  that  it's  very  splendid 
and  exhilarating  to  work  in  the  slums.  If  you  had 
had  my  experience,  you'd  understand  that  to  me  this 
garden  seems  a  sort  of  Paradise.  You  can't  appre- 
ciate the  attractions  of  this  sort  of  life  unless  you 
come  in,  as  I  do — from  the  outside." 

She  was  obviously  troubled  by  that  outburst. 
"And  how  long  do  you  think  you  could  stand  being 
shut  in  here?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"At  this  moment,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  could 
stand  quite  a  lot  of  it,"  Arthur  said. 


44     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

He  knew  that  he  was  not  saying  the  things  she 
wanted  him  to  say.  He  could  feel  her  longing  to 
hear  him  disparage  the  delights  of  Harding  and 
enlarge  upon  those  of  what  she  had  called  "real 
work."  But  her  very  urgency  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  respond  in  his  present  mood.  Also,  he 
was  aware  of  a  curious  desire  to  contradict  her, 
even  to  hurt  her.  It  was,  as  he  put  it  to  himself, 
all  very  well  for  her  to  talk  about  things  she  knew 
nothing  about.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  new  criti- 
cism, and  her  youth  and  freshness  seemed  almost 
an  offence.  The  whiteness  of  her  hands,  the  spot- 
lessness  of  her  pale  gray  linen  dress,  the  clearness 
of  her  complexion  and  of  her  blue  eyes,  even  the 
lines  of  her  firm,  well-nourished  young  figure  were 
all  effects  of  the  protected  life  she  had  lived.  It 
was  not  for  her  to  find  fault  with  him  for  wanting 
some  share  of  the  luxury  that  to  the  Kenyons  had 
become  commonplace. 

"You  surely  don't  mean  that  you  would  care  to 
stay — to  live  here?"  she  was  saying. 

The  little  bark  of  laughter  with  which  he  replied 
held  a  note  of  derision. 

"Does  it  seem  so  extraordinary,"  he  said,  "that 
after  five  years  of  dirt  and  disease  and  unmention- 
able minor  tortures,  a  man  should  hanker  after  a 
little  cleanliness  and  comfort?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  no,  of  course  not," 
she  said.  "I  didn't  in  the  least  mean  that.  I'd 
like  you  to  have  a  rest.  You've  earned  it.  It's 
just  that  .  .  .  this  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on  always. 
You  wouldn't  like,  would  you,  to  stay  here  in- 
definitely, even  if  you  could?" 

He  knew  that  he  was  being  a  trifle  perverse  as 
he  answered  that.    "Too  good  to  be  true,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  again  with  that  look  of  earnest 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     45 

inquiry  with  which  she  had  first  greeted  him.  "If 
you  really  think  that  .  .  ."  she  began,  and  then 
stopped  abruptly.  "We  ought  to  be  getting  back," 
she  went  on  in  another  tone.  "Dinner  is  at  eight. 
We  shall  only  have  half  an  hour  to  dress.  You'll 
see  my  grandfather  this  evening.  He  sent  you  a 
message  and  I  came  out  to  give  it  to  you,  but  .  .  . 
However,  he  told  me  to  ask  you  if  you  couldn't 
stay  on  for  a  day  or  two;  whether  you  need  go  back 
to  town  on  Monday?  I'll  tell  him  what  you've  said. 
Do  you  mind  if  I  go  on?  I  have  one  or  two  things 
to  see  to  before  dinner." 

Before  he  had  time  to  answer,  she  was  running 
back  towards  the  house.  She  ran  lightly  and  grace- 
fully, with  the  ease  and  vigour  of  an  active  girl  of 
twenty. 

Arthur  following,  kept  her  in  sight  as  long  as  he 
could. 

"Rather  a  'ripper,'  "  was  the  comment  that  came 
first  to  his  mind.  It  was  followed  by  the  determina- 
tion to  stay  at  Hartling  as  long  as  they  could  put 
up  with  him — or  he  with  them.  In  his  thought  of 
"them"  he  was  picturing  the  "crowd"  he  had  met  at 
tea-time. 

Dressing  for  dinner  was  a  delightful  experience. 
Eleanor,  whether  deliberately  or  not,  had  made  a 
mistake  in  the  time,  and  when  Arthur  had  found 
his  room  with  the  help  of  the  butler,  he  had  a  full 
thirty-five  minutes  in  which  to  dress. 

The  first  five  of  them  were  spent  in  a  blissful 
revel  in  his  surroundings.  He  had  a  bathroom  all 
to  himself — a  perfect  bathroom  with  white  walls 
above  a  tiled  dado  of  pale  green  that  curved  round 
smoothly  at  its  base  to  form  a  tiled  floor  of  the 
same  colour.    The  bath  and  lavatory  basin  were  of 


46     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

white  porcelain  with  nickel-silver  taps,  and  the 
ample  bossy  towel  rails  heated  by  hot  water,  were 
also  of  nickel  silver. 

And  his  bedroom  was  so  bright  and  exquisitely 
clean.  It  was  done  in  the  modern  style  with  simple 
effective  furniture  almost  devoid  of  mouldings. 
The  motive  of  the  colour  scheme  was  an  unob- 
trusive blue,  taken  up  in  the  carpet,  the  faintly 
patterned  wallpaper  and  the  linen  curtains  at  the 
window.  And  from  the  window  itself,  the  approach 
to  which  was  not  encumbered  by  furniture,  he 
could  look  out  above  the  shrubberies  and  the  wall 
and  catch  glimpses  between  the  trees  of  the  great 
swelling  lines  of  Sussex,  of  the  immense  background 
and  setting  of  this  jewelled  Harding  garden. 

He  leaned  out  and  sniffed  the  sweetness  of  the 
evening  air.  Twenty-four  hours  ago,  he  had  been 
in  the  midst  of  London  foulness,  irritable  with  the 
grit  and  dust  of  a  hot  evening  in  late  May.  Now 
he  had  this  freshness  and  sweetness  to  savour  and 
delight  in.  The  contrast  was  that  between  Hell 
and  Heaven.    Already  his  skin  felt  cleaner. 

With  a  sudden  whoop  of  joy  he  came  back  into 
the  room  and  began  to  strip  himself.  He  would 
have  a  bath  at  once,  and  another  when  he  came  to 
bed.  Lovely  hot  water,  nice  soap,  and  splendid 
warm  towels.  Ripping  house!  Would  he  stay  as 
long  as  he  could?  Wouldn't  he  rather!  He  would 
stay  altogether  if  he  had  the  chance.  Lord,  what 
fools  these  people  were  downstairs,  not  to  know 
when  they  were  well  off. 

He  was  putting  on  his  dinner  jacket  as  the  second 
gong  sounded,  and  he  tore  down  the  stairs  just  in 
time  to  join  the  straggling  procession  that  was 
crossing  the  hall.    They  had  not  waited  for  him., 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     47 

He  caught  his  uncle  looking  at  him  with  a  smile, 
and  ranged  himself  beside  him. 

"Feel  pretty  young,  what?"  his  uncle  said  with 
a  chuckle. 

"Fairly  fresh,"  Arthur  agreed.  "Jolly  place, 
this." 

"Yes,  fine  place,"  his  uncle  admitted. 

Arthur,  remembering  that  his  uncle  was  the 
eldest  son,  and  would  probably  inherit  the  property, 
decided  that  he  was  a  person  to  be  propitiated. 
Also,  he  seemed,  on  the  whole,  to  be  less  inimical 
than  the  others. 

When  they  reached  the  dining-room,  Arthur  had 
his  first  sight  of  the  founder  and  head  of  the  House 
of  Kenyon. 

He  was  already  seated  at  the  far  end  of  the  long, 
narrow  table,  and  as  the  family  went  to  their  places 
he  watched  them  with  a  calm  paternal  smile  of 
satisfaction.  Then,  almost  by  chance  it  seemed,  his 
glance  rested  on  the  new-comer,  and  his  expression 
changed  to  one  of  more  vivid  interest.  He  made 
a  slight  inclination  of  the  head  in  Arthur's  direction, 
and  turning  to  his  daughter-in-law  said  in  a  clear, 
thin  voice: — 

"Hannah!  Bring  Arthur  Woodroffe  up  and  in- 
troduce him  to  me." 

He  called  it  an  introduction,  but  there  was, 
Arthur  thought,  a  dignity  about  the  formal  request 
that  gave  the  function  almost  the  air  of  a  presenta- 
tion. 

But  here,  at  least,  was  no  sign  of  that  aloofness 
which  had  marked  his  reception  by  the  rest  of  the 
family.    The  old  man  was  gracious  and  friendly. 

"Eleanor  gave  me  your  message,"  he  said.  "I'm 
so  glad  that  you  will  be  able  to  stay  with  us  for  a 


48     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

few  days.  We  must  have  a  talk.  I  want  to  hear 
something  of  your  experiences  in  the  war.  But  not 
to-night."  His  smile  had  again  that  gentle,  pater- 
nal quality  as  he  concluded  with  a  nod  of  dismissal. 
"You  must  indulge  the  humours  of  a  very  old  man, 
and  let  me  choose  my  own  time." 

Arthur  went  back  to  his  place  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  with  a  faint  sense  of  awe. 

Mr  Kenyon  was  certainly  a  wonderful  old  man. 
Arthur's  mind  reverted  continually  to  that  thought 
in  the  fairly  long  intervals  between  the  snatches  of 
polite  conversation  he  held  with  Miss  Kenyon,  who 
was  on  his  right  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  or  with 
his  pretty  but  uninteresting  Cousin  Elizabeth  on 
his  other  side.  Hubert,  who  was  immediately  op- 
posite, was  plunged  in  a  melancholy  silence. 

But  in  what,  precisely,  the  wonder  of  Mr.  Kenyon 
lay,  Arthur  was  a  little  uncertain.  His  appearance 
was  certainly  striking.  He  had  abundant  white 
hair,  not  dead  white  like  his  eldest  daughter's,  but 
with  the  smooth  sheen  like  the  gloss  of  a  pearl, 
and  with  something  too  of  an  old  pearl's  cream  in 
the  colour.  His  eyes  were  a  pale  blue,  with  a  hint 
of  brilliance  that  was  lacking  in  his  daughter,  who 
greatly  resembled  him  in  many  ways.  But  the 
queer  thing  that  Arthur  presently  disentangled  from 
his  analysis  was  that  the  old  man,  in  spite  of  his 
alertness  and  vigour,  looked  his  age;  looked,  indeed, 
as  if  he  might  have  been  any  age.  His  skin  was  not 
so  much  lined  as  crinkled.  There  were  no  deep 
furrows  in  his  face,  but  the  skin  had  the  appearance 
of  a  piece  of  paper  that  had  been  crushed  into  a 
tight  ball  and  then  partly  smoothed  out.  He 
seemed  to  have  arrived  at  a  stage  in  which  he  might 
remain  indefinitely.  He  had  achieved  a  physical 
type  of  the  old  man.     He  might  very  well  look 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     49 

precisely  as  he  did  now,  in  ten,  twenty,  or  fifty 
years'  time. 

Yet,  when  all  the  effect  of  his  appearance  had 
been  allowed  for,  there  remained  a  cause  for  wonder 
about  him  that  had  not  been  explained.  He  was  so 
amazingly  self-confident  and  serene.  With  all  his 
air  of  gentleness  and  affection,  he  had  some  quality 
of  supremacy. 

Two  things  Arthur  noted  in  the  course  of  dinner, 
that  gave  him  still  further  material  for  reflection. 
The  first,  in  so  far  as  its  immediate  .consequences 
were  concerned,  he  could  not  understand. 

The  older  generation  at  the  further  end  of  the 
table  had  been  talking  about  Italy,  and  Arthur's 
uncle  had  apparently  come  to  life  and  began  an 
enthusiastic  account  of  the  beauties  of  a  North 
Italian  spring.  He  was  talking,  Arthur  thought, 
surprisingly  well.  He  had  evidently  the  eyes  of  an 
artist  for  colour.  Moreover,  there  was  an  emo- 
tional undertone  in  his  descriptions  that  made  them 
peculiarly  vivid. 

And  then  old  Mr  Kenyon,  who  had  been  listening 
with  a  kind,  approving  smile,  said  gently: — 

"I  have  often  wondered,  Joe,  why  you  don't  live 
in  Italy.  I  feel  that,  in  many  ways,  you  would  be 
more  at  home  there  than  here." 

It  seemed  such  a  friendly,  fatherly  speech,  but 
the  effect  of  it  was  as  if  his  son  had  been  brutally 
reproved.  He  coloured  slightly,  hung  his  head,  and 
went  on  with  his  dinner  in  an  embarrassed  silence. 
He  had  the  look  of  a  man  who  was  thoroughly 
cowed.  His  sister,  Mrs  Turner,  who  was  sitting 
on  his  right,  also  looked  rather  embarrassed. 

The  second  observation  was  of  another  kind. 

The  entree  had  just  been  removed  when  Arthur 
became  aware  of  a  curious  hush  that  had  fallen  upon 


50     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

the  room.  The  service  throughout  had  been  quiet, 
unostentatiously  efficient,  but  now  the  butler  and  his 
two  attendant  parlour-maids  were  moving  about  on 
tip-toe,  and  every  sound  of  conversation  had  ceased. 

Instinctively  Arthur  looked  up  the  table  at  Mr 
Kenyon. 

He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  his  hands  clasp- 
ing the  arms,  his  eyes  were  wide  open,  but  stared 
unseeingly  down  the  room.  He  looked  like  a  man 
in  a  trance;  it  flashed  into  Arthur's  mind  that  he 
looked  like  a  dreaming  god. 

The  servants  were  standing  now  by  the  sideboard, 
doing  nothing.  And  for  perhaps  a  couple  of  min- 
utes the  progress  of  the  dinner  was  suspended. 
Every  one  sat  in  silence  and  waited  until  the  dream- 
ing god  smiled  and  leaned  forward  again  in  his 
chair.  He  came  back  to  his  world  with  no  sign  of 
disturbance  or  shock.  He  was  to  all  appearances 
unaware  of  the  interval  that  had  passed.  And 
immediately,  with  a  quiet  inevitableness  the  sub- 
dued sounds  of  footsteps  and  low  conversation 
crept  back  into  the  room. 

Arthur  remembered  the  remark  of  the  chauffeur 
who  had  driven  him  from  the  station.  What  was 
it  he  had  said?  "It's  as  if  he  were  sound  asleep 
with  his  eyes  wide  open."  That  explanation  did  not 
satisfy  Arthur's  feeling  for  physiological  proba- 
bility. He  wondered  if  it  might  be  a  case  of  petit 
mal,  minor  epilepsy? 

He  looked  round  the  table  and  thought  that  he 
could  detect  a  general  air  of  demure  resignation  in 
the  bowed  faces  around  him.  Ninety-one!  They 
were  all  remembering  that  the  old  man  was  ninety- 
one.    Anything  might  happen  at  that  age ! 

He  glanced  across  the  table  again  and  saw  that 
Eleanor  was  watching  him.    He  smiled  at  her,  but 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     51 

the  smile  with  which  she  answered  him  had  no 
warmth  in  it.    It  was  nothing  but  a  polite  response. 

How  jolly  she  looked  in  that  soft  white  dress! 

He  returned  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  dinner, 
which  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  best  he  had  ever 
eaten.  It  was  a  simple  dinner:  soup,  entree,  a 
saddle  of  mutton,  sweet,  savory,  and  dessert;  but 
it  was  perfectly  cooked  and  served.  The  clear  soup 
had  had  wine  in  it,  and  a  flavour  that  was  at  once 
delicate  and  strong;  the  entree  had  had  just  that 
touch  of  piquancy  that  gave  one  an  appetite  for  the 
joint.  And  the  saddle  was  a  joint  to  remember, 
so  firm  and  tender,  its  richness  nicely  mitigated  by 
the  new  potatoes  and  green  peas  that  accompanied 
it.  Arthur  had  a  palate  and  could  appreciate  these 
good  things.  Also,  although  he  had  had  a  limited 
experience  of  wine,  he  knew  that  the  claret  was  no 
ordinary  vintage.  It  had  an  aroma  like  fruit.  At 
dessert  there  were  magnificent  strawberries.  Arthur 
found  a  justification  for  the  theory  that  such  things 
as  new  peas,  potatoes,  and  strawberries  taste  better 
in  the  third  week  of  May  than  at  the  end  of  June. 
It  was,  he  decided,  because  they  brought  a  fore- 
taste of  summer,  and  the  anticipation  has  always 
some  exquisite  flavour  that  is  lacking  in  the  present 
reality.  He  was  pleased  with  this  conceit  and  tried 
it  on  Miss  Kenyon. 

She  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  "It  may  be  true 
when  one  is  under  forty,"  she  said.  "After  that, 
one  prefers  to  live  in  the  present." 

He  was  emboldened  by  the  claret  to  press  the 
old  psychological  truism  to  its  conclusion.  "And 
later  still  there  comes  a  time,  I  believe,  when  one 
lives  chiefly  in  the  past,"  he  hazarded. 

"It  may  come  to  some  people,"  Miss  Kenyon 
said,  and  glanced  at  her  father  down  the  length  of 


52     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

the  table.  She  had  an  unimpeded  sight  of  him 
above  the  low  silver  dishes  of  fruit,  that  with  their 
reflection  in  the  rich  dark  mirror  of  the  polished 
mahogany  were  an  ample  decoration. 

Arthur  had  not  enough  courage  to  name  the 
exception  she  so  obviously  had  in  her  mind. 

Over  the  dessert  and  the  coffee  and  cigarettes 
that  followed  before  Miss  Kenyon  rose  from  the 
table,  Arthur  at  last  discovered  a  subject  for  dis- 
cussion with  his  cousin  Elizabeth.  She  was,  it 
seemed,  an  expert  croquet  player,  and  wanted  to 
play  in  tournaments.  She  grew  quite  animated  in 
her  talk  of  the  game,  although  her  technicalities 
were  beyond  his  knowledge. 

"I'll  teach  you,  if  you  like,"  she  said.  "It'll  be 
jolly  to  have  some  one  new  to  play  with.  None  of 
the  others  are  any  good  really." 

"I  expect  I'd  pick  it  up  pretty  quickly,"  Arthur 
replied  with  a  touch  of  pique.  "I'm  fairly  good 
at  those  sort  of  games,  billiards,  and  golf,  and  so 
on,  you  know." 

Elizabeth  smiled  the  condescending  smile  of  the 
expert.  "It's  chiefly  a  matter  of  constant  practice, 
of  course,"  she  said.  "I  generally  put  in  a  couple 
of  hours  every  day." 

In  his  heart  Arthur  thought  that  croquet  was 
rather  a  piffling  game,  and  had  an  "inner  conviction 
that  he  would  very  soon  be  able  to  give  his  cousin 
a  good  match.  He  made  an  appointment  with  her 
to  take  his  first  lesson  the  next  morning.  The 
Kenyons  were  not  Sabbatarians.  "No  one  goes  to 
church,  hardly,  except  mother,"  Elizabeth  told  him. 

Later  he  discovered  another  example  of  expertise 
in  the  family.  Old  Mr  Kenyon  did  not  accompany 
his  family  to  the  drawing-room,  and  after  a  few 
aimless  minutes,  in  the  course  of  which  most  of  the 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     5} 

family  settled  themselves  down  to  the  same  occupa- 
tions that  had  engaged  them  after  tea,  Mr  Turner 
came  across  the  room  and  asked  if  he  would  "care 
for  a  game  of  billiards. " 

Arthur  assented  with  enthusiasm.  He  rather 
fancied  himself  as  a  billiard  player,  and  in  any  case 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  Presently  he  might 
get  up  a  flirtation  with  Elizabeth,  but  the  beginning 
of  that  could  very  well  wait  until  the  croquet  lesson. 
She  had  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  as  he  was 
leaving  the  drawing-room,  and  he  had  returned  the 
smile  and  waved  his  hand. 

Eleanor,  presumably,  was  with  her  grandfather. 

His  evening's  billiards  served  him  as  an  object- 
lesson,  in  how  the  game  ought  to  be  played.  After 
the  first  game,  Turner  gave  him  two  hundred  start 
in  three  hundred  up;  a  handicap  that  produced  a 
fairly  close  finish. 

Turner  admitted  that  he  kept  himself  in  practice. 
"Nothing  much  else  to  do,"  he  explained,  "except 
get  licked  by  Elizabeth  at  croquet." 

"And  what's  your  game?"  Arthur  asked  Hubert, 
who  had  strolled  in  while  they  were  playing  and  had 
been  marking  for  them. 

"Play  golf  a  bit,"  Hubert  said.  "There's  quite  a 
decent  course  about  a  mile  from  here.  I  go  over 
most  days.    Give  you  a  game  any  time  you  like." 

"Well,  I  didn't  bring  any  clubs  down,"  Arthur 
replied.  "Had  no  practice  to  speak  of,  you  see,  in 
the  last  six  years,  but  I  used  to  be  rather  keen." 

"Hubert  is  hot  stuff,"  Turner  commented.  "Plus 
two,  isn't  it,  now,  Hubert?" 

"Three,  since  I  won  the  last  medal,"  was  his 
nephew's  reply. 

"Good  Lord!  Why  that's  Amateur  Champion- 
ship form,"  Arthur  exclaimed. 


54     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"Oh!  hardly  that!"  Hubert  thought.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  quite  indifferent  to  Arthur's  admira- 
tion. 

When  he  was  alone  in  his  delightful  bedroom, 
Arthur  made  a  reflective  audit  of  his  day's  experi- 
ence. The  balance  he  arrived  at  was  that  he  would 
thoroughly  enjoy  his  visit  to  Hartling. 

Miss  Kenyon  was  rather  a  dragon — a  cold, 
practical  woman,  probably  a  very  good  manager, 
was  his  estimate  of  her — and  none  of  them  had 
been  particularly  cordial  to  him,  although  old 
Turner  had  relaxed  to  a  certain  extent  when  they 
were  playing  billiards.  But  there  were  overwhelm- 
ing compensations  to  set  against  this  small  dis- 
couragement. 

He  looked  round  his  bedroom  and  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  contentment,  then  went  into  the  bath- 
room and  turned  on  the  hot  water.  The  window 
was  open  and  he  drew  back  the  curtain  and  leaned 
out.  What  a  comfort  it  was  not  to  be  overlooked, 
to  know  that  there  was  nothing  out  there  but  the 
sweetness  and  serenity  of  the  night!  It  gave  him 
a  sense  of  freedom  and  cleanliness,  of  being  in  touch 
with  Nature. 

But  when  he  was  in  his  bath  his  thoughts  turned 
back  to  less  aesthetic  compensations.  The  great  and 
essential  question  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  at 
Hartling,  had  been  solved  for  him.  There  would 
be  games,  a  succession  of  games  of  various  kinds, 
to  be  played  with  skill  against  opponents  from 
whom  he  would  be  learning  all  the  time.  (That  old 
chap  Turner  was  a  fair  nailer  at  billiards!  He 
played  all  his  shots  with  "drag"  like  a  profes- 
sional!) He  would  not,  of  course,  be  able  to  im- 
prove his  own  game  appreciably  in  three  or  four 
days,  but  with  luck  he  might  be  asked  to  stay  a 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     SS 

week.  He  would  accept  like  a  bird  if  they  did  ask 
him.  .  .  .  He  must  try  to  entertain  the  old  man 
when  that  promised  talk  came  off.  He  was  evi- 
dently the  boss  still,  in  spite  of  his  age.  The  invi- 
tation to  stay  had  come  straight  from  him.  He  was 
an  impressive  old  fellow  too,  with  a  remarkable  air 
of  dignity  and  what  one  spoke  of  vaguely  as  "per- 
sonality." He  gave  you  the  feeling  that  he  would 
get  his  own  way  about  things.  .  .  .  His  eldest  son 
did  not  take  after  him.  Rather  a  sloppy  chap, 
Uncle  Joe.  His  tie  had  been  all  round  his  neck  by 
the  end  of  dinner.  Funny  the  way  he  had  shut  up 
about  Italy.  He  was  probably  only  a  gasser,  and 
did  not  in  the  least  want  to  live  there.  He  would 
certainly  let  the  property  down  when  he  came  into 
it,  unless  he  had  some  one  to  look  after  it  for  him. 

Arthur  had  a  contempt  for  slackness.  His  opin- 
ion of  his  cousin  had  gone  up  a  hundred  per  cent, 
since  he  had  learnt  that  Hubert's  handicap  was 
"plus  three."  That  was  a  form  of  efficiency. 
Melancholy-looking  devil,  though.  They  were  all  a 
bit  on  that  side  for  some  reason  or  another;  looked 
depressed  and  bored,  as  if  they  were  tired  of  waiting 
for  something  .  .  .  except  Eleanor.  She  was  dif- 
ferent from  the  others.  Different,  but  not  neces- 
sarily nicer.  There  was  a  touch  of  the  school- 
mistress about  her.  She  wanted  to  do  what  she 
thought  were  the  right  things. 

Elizabeth  might  be  amusing  when  one  got  to 
know  her  better, 


ARTHUR  saw  very  little  of  Eleanor  and  old  Mr 
Kenyon  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  days. 
They  had  lunch  and  dinner  with  the  family,  and  once 
or  twice  he  caught  sight  of  them  in  the  garden  while 
he  was  playing  croquet  with  Elizabeth ;  but  on  none 
of  these  occasions  did  he  find  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  either  of  them.  Meanwhile,  he  was 
improving  his  acquaintance  with  the  other  members 
of  the  party  permanently  assembled  at  Harding; 
although  further  than  that  he  was  unable  to  go. 
He  had  revised  his  first  impression  of  them  as  being 
definitely  inimical,  but  they  remained  acquaintances. 

His  uncle  and  Mr  Turner  had  come  nearest  to 
passing  beyond  the  limitations  of  polite  intercourse ; 
and  the  latter  had  shown  an  interest  in  Arthur's 
plans  for  the  future;  had,  indeed,  discussed  with 
him  the  prospects  of  getting  an  appointment  in 
Canada,  and  promised  him  two  or  three  introduc- 
tions. But  the  point  at  which  he  and  all  the  others 
had  drawn  back,  had  been  the  returning  of  any  sort 
of  confidence.  They  offered  none,  and  put  him  off 
if  he  attempted  any  question.  They  left  him  with 
the  impression  of  some  important  reserve  behind 
all  their  treatment  of  him.  It  was  as  if  they  all 
shared  some  secret  that  he  could  never  know.  When 
he  was  with  them  he  could  never  forget  that  he  was 
an  outsider,  not  one  of  the  family. 

He  had  even  been  aware  of  that  reserve  as  a 
check  upon  the  development  of  his  flirtation  with 
Elizabeth.  She  at  once  encouraged  him  and  kept 
him  at  a  distance.    She  might  have  been  a  princess 

59 


60     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

of  the  blood,  amusing  herself  with  a  member  of  the 
nobility  whom  she  might  know  but  could  never 
marry.  He  had  been  definitely  piqued  by  that  at- 
titude in  his  own  first  cousin,  and  had  tried  to  break 
down  her  defence,  to  claim  her  as  an  equal  and  a 
contemporary.  So  far,  however,  that  attempt  had 
been  a  failure.  She  had  not  apparently  resented 
his  overtures,  but  they  had  not  advanced  his 
intimacy  with  her.  There  was  some  invisible  bar- 
rier always  between  them,  a  barrier  that  seemed  to 
be  essential  and  permanent. 

He  was  sorry  because  he  believed  that  he  was 
ready  to  fall  in  love  with  her  if  she  would  let  him. 
She  was  certainly  pretty  in  a  general  sort  of  way, 
with  brown  eyes,  rather  dark  hair,  and  a  fair  skin 
that  had  freckled  over  the  bridge  of  her  snub  nose. 
And  her  mastery  of  the  game  of  croquet  had  been 
a  revelation  to  him.  He  had  realised  on  that  first 
Sunday  morning  how  scientific  a  game  croquet  could 
be,  played  on  that  perfect  lawn.  She  was  as  much 
his  superior,  hopelessly  beyond  rivalry  in  her  own 
game  as  Charles  Turner  or  Hubert  were  in  theirs. 
Her  tennis  was  fairly  good,  too;  quite  as  good  as 
his  own,  but  she  complained  that  she  got  no  practice. 
Hubert  played,  but  none  of  the  others,  except 
Eleanor,  who  seldom  had  any  time  for  games. 

Arthur  was  taking  a  lesson  from  Mr  Turner  in 
the  billiard-room  at  a  quarter  to  seven  on  Tuesday 
evening  when  Eleanor  came  in  to  him  with  a 
message. 

She  waited  while  her  uncle  played  his  shot  and 
then  turning  to  Arthur  said: — 

"Would  you  mind  dressing  early  to-night,  Mr. 
Woodroffe?  My  grandfather  thought  he  might 
find  a  chance  of  talking  to  you  before  dinner." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     61 

"Ah!  yes,  of  course/'  Arthur  agreed.  "I'll  go 
now."  He  could  have  no  doubt  that  this  was  a 
command.  Turner  had  put  down  his  cue  as  if  he 
had  been  prepared  for  some  such  developement  as 
this,  and  took  no  further  interest  in  the  game. 
Nevertheless  there  must  have  been  still  something 
that  he  did  not  know,  for  he  looked  at  Eleanor 
with  raised  eyebrows,  plainly  hinting  a  question 
the  nature  of  which  she,  presumably,  could  gress; 
although  the  slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders  with 
which  she  replied  intimated  that  she  did  not,  as  yet, 
know  the  answer. 

Arthur  pondered  that  exchange  of  signals  as  he 
dressed.  He  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  he 
might  not  find  an  explanation  of  various  things,  that 
had  puzzled  him  at  Harding;  in  the  desire  of  the 
Kenyons  to  conceal  a  family  secret.  Was  it  not 
possible  that  the  head  of  the  house  was  slightly 
insane?  If  that  were  so,  everything  could  be 
accounted  for:  their  references  to  people  coming 
in  "from  the  outside" ;  their  half-suspicious  reception 
of  himself;  the  separation  of  the  old  man  from  the 
family-life  except  at  lunch  and  dinner;  the  constant 
attendance  of  Eleanor.  .  .  .  Arthur  was  inclined 
to  believe  that  he  had  guessed  the  riddle,  iand 
resolved  to  be  very  observant  during  the  coming 
interview. 

He  was  tying  his  bow  when  some  one  knocked 
at  his  bedroom  door.  He  guessed  that  it  was 
Eleanor  come  to  fetch  him,  and  snatching  at  his 
waistcoat,  called  out,  "One  minute!  I  won't  be  a 
moment."  But  when  he  opened  the  door  a  few 
seconds  later,  he  was  amazed  to  find  old  Mr  Kenyon 
himself  standing  outside. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,  I  didn't  realise  .  .  ."  Arthur 
began. 


62     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

The  old  man  waved  aside  his  apology.  "I  quite 
understand,"  he  said.  "Naturally  you  were  not 
expecting  me.    May  I  come  in?" 

"Oh !  please.  Yes,  do,"  Arthur  responded.  He 
felt  embarrassed  by  this  strange  mark  of  favour. 
He  had  pictured  the  promised  interview  as  likely 
to  be  something  of  a  function.  Was  it  possible 
that  the  old  man  had  temporarily  escaped  from  his 
keeper? 

Mr  Kenyon  had  seated  himself  in  a  little  chintz- 
covered  arm-chair  and  appeared  quite  at  his  ease. 

"We  shall  be  quieter  here,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"Smoke  if  you  want  to.  I  haven't  smoked  now 
for  fifty  years,  but  I  don't  at  all  dislike  it." 

Arthur  took  advantage  of  this  indulgence  with 
a  faint  smile  at  the  whimsical  reflection  that  the 
old  man  had  abandoned  the  habit  of  smoking  more 
than  twenty  years  before  Arthur  himself  had  been 
born.  Mr  Kenyon  apparently  read  the  young  man's 
thought,  for  he  went  on: — 

"Yes,  there  is  a  long  gap  between  you  and  me, 
Woodroffe.  I  was  born  in  the  reign  of  George  the 
Fourth.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  find  it  a 
little  difficulty  to  realise  that  I  still  keep  in  touch  with 
present-day  affairs." 

Arthur,  with  his  new  suspicion  fresh  in  his  mind, 
was  watching  the  old  man  with  a  more  or  less  in- 
formed eye,  and  although  he  could  find  at  present 
no  least  confirmation  of  his  theory,  he  thought 
there  would  be  no  harm  in  attempting  a  leading 
question. 

"Do  you  really,  sir?"  he  commented.  "You 
mean  that  you  can  still  take  a  pleasure  in  reading 
about  modern  life,  and  hearing  about  it?" 

"And  in  living  it,"  Mr  Kenyon  said,  with  his 
gentle  smile.     "You  must  not  suppose  that  I  keep 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     63 

myself  shut  in  here.  I  often  go  to  town  in  the 
car.  More  often,  in  fact,  than  any  other  member 
of  the  family." 

"You  must  have  a  perfectly  marvellous  constitu- 
tion, sir,"  Arthur  said. 

Mr  Kenyon  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It 
seems  a  commonplace  to  me,"  he  returned.  "Per- 
haps because  I  have  always  had  it.  I  have  never 
been  ill.  But  I  did  not  come  here  to  talk  about  my- 
self. I  am  more  interested  in  you.  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  something  of  your  experiences  in  the  war; 
and  then  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  suddenly.  His  keen 
blue  eyes  were  intently  watching  Arthur's  face. 

"And  then,  sir?"  Arthur  prompted  him. 

Mr  Kenyon's  expression  of  watchfulness  relaxed. 
"And  then,"  he  said  graciously,  "something  of  what 
you  intend  to  do  in  the  future." 

Arthur  would  have  preferred  to  take  the  second 
point  first.  He  had  already  abandoned  his  theory 
of  insanity.  And  it  had  come  to  him  with  an  ex- 
hilarating sense  of  certainty  that  Mr  Kenyon  in- 
tended to  "do  something  for  him."  When  the  old 
man  had  concluded  his  sentence,  he  had  worn  the 
benign,  generous  air  of  patron. 

"Well,  you  see,  sir,  I  joined  up  in  August,  '14," 
Arthur  began,  meaning  to  get  the  history  done 
with  as  quickly  as  possible;  but  Mr  Kenyon  pulled 
him  up  before  he  had  gone  very  far  with  the  brief 
outline  he  had  intended  to  draw  of  the  main  facts 
of  his  experience. 

"Then  you  saw  service  in  the  trenches?"  he  put 
in,  and  when  Arthur  admitted  that  he  had,  began 
to  pose  some  very  shrewd  questions  as  to  the  effect 
that  terrible  experience  might  have  on  a  young 
man's  nerves  and  temperament. 

"But  you,  yourself,  came  through  without  any 


64     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

permanent  disaffection?"  he  continued,  after  Arthur 
had  let  himself  go  a  little  on  the  pathology  of  war- 
shock. 

"Absolutely,  as  far  as  one  can  judge,  sir,"  Arthur 
replied. 

Mr  Kenyon  nodded.  "I  believe  it  is  true,  is  it 
not,"  he  asked,  "that  the  really  normal  man  was  not 
subject  to  these  nerve  troubles?" 

"As  far  as  we  know,  sir,"  Arthur  replied.  "It's 
the  general  theory  that  in  the  bad  cases  of  psycho- 
neurosis,  there  was  always  a  predisposition  before 
the  man  went  out." 

He  would  have  gone  on  with  a  youthful  pride  in 
his  knowledge  to  elaborate  the  theory,  but  Mr  Ken- 
yon switched  him  off  by  saying,  with  a  change  of 
tone  that  suddenly  quickened  Arthur's  interest: — 

"You  are,  now,  a  fully  qualified  medical  man,  I 
understand?" 

"Oh !  yes,  fully  qualified,"  Arthur  said  promptly. 

Mr  Kenyon  nodded,  and  then  rose  and  began  to 
walk  slowly  up  and  down  the  room.  He  had  a 
silver-headed,  ebony  stick  with  him,  but  he  hardly 
leaned  upon  it,  his  back  was  not  bowed,  and  his 
step  was  perfectly  firm.  His  figure  and  general 
activity  might  have  been  that  of  a  man  of  sixty. 

Arthur  watched  him  with  admiration.  It  was 
almost  incredible  to  him  that  the  old  man  could  be 
ninety-one.  And  it  crossed  his  mind  that  his  uncle 
might  have  to  wait  many  years  yet  before  he  came 
into  the  property. 

Mr  Kenyon  continued  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  as  he  went  on : — 

"I  have  thought  once  or  twice  lately  that  I  should 
like  to  have  some  one  living  here  in  the  house  who 
might  .  .  ."  he  paused  before  he  added,  "who 
would  be  competent  in  an  emergency.     There  is  a 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     6  s 

doctor  in  the  village — an  able,  pleasant  man,  for 
whom  I  have  considerable  respect — but  he  lives  two 
miles  from  us,  and  .  .  ."  He  let  the  sentence  die 
away  without  completing  it,  beginning  again  in  a 
firmer  voice,  "At  my  age,  Arthur — I  must  call  you 
that!  we  are,  after  all,  connected — one  has  fancies. 
I  don't  deceive  myself  with  any  foolish  idea  that  I 
can  live  for  ever.  And  one  of  my  fancies,  a  fairly 
common  one,  I  believe,  is  a  fear  of  premature  burial. 
I  should  like  to  have  some  one  permanently  here 
whom  I  could  trust.  Moreover,  I  have  felt  that 
a  competent  medical  man  with  whom  I  was  in  touch, 
would  be  in  a  position  to  give  me — shall  I  say — 
warning.  You  may  be  surprised  to  learn  that  I — 
a  business  man  by  training  and  inclination — have 
been  so  unbusinesslike  as  to  have  left  my  own  affairs 
unsettled.  There  are  reasons,  of  course,  family 
reasons  that  I  need  not  trouble  you  with,  but  you 
must  think  it  very  lax  in  a  man  of  ninety-one  not 
to  have  completed  his  testamentary  dispositions. 
I  have,  it  is  true,  made  a  will,  but  not  a  final  one. 
I  have  an  eccentric  inclination — a  touch  of  super- 
stition perhaps — to  postpone  that  duty,  although 
my  present  will,"  he  turned  and  faced  Arthur  with 
an  expression  of  humorous  despair,  "is  nothing 
more  or  less  than  an  untidy  mass  of  codicils.  In  my 
opinion,  it  is  dangerously  contestable  in  its  present 
state.  Fleet,  my  lawyer,  thinks  otherwise,  but  I 
have  had  more  experience  than  he  has. 

"In  any  case,  I  mean  to  make  a  new  one,  and 
since  you  have  been  here  it  has  occurred  to  me  that 
I  might  indulge  my  little  eccentricity  more  safely 
if  I  had  some  competent  and  experienced  person  on 
whom  I  could  rely,  permanently  in  the  household; 
some  one  who  would  be  with  me  for  an  hour  or  so 
every  day,  an  expert  who  would  be  in  a  position  to 


66     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HAR  TUNG 

say  to  me:  "Kenyon,  I  must  warn  you  that  your 
days  are  running  out  and  it  is  time  for  you  to  put 
your  affairs  in  order."  Also,  as  I  have  said,  I 
should  prefer  to  trust  the  matter  of  my  death  certi- 
ficate to  a  medical  man  in  whose  integrity  I  could 
have  perfect  confidence.  These  are  the  fancies  of 
a  very  old  man,  no  doubt,  but  after  all  why  should 
I  not  indulge  them  if  I  can?  I  may  tell  you  quite 
frankly,  Arthur,  that  I  am  not  of  those  who  make 
a  virtue  of  self-sacrifice. " 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  stood  staring  in  front  of 
him  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  reflected  on  that  last 
statement,  and  then  sat  down  again  in  the  chintz- 
covered  arm-chair. 

Arthur  realised  that  the  time  had  come  for  him 
to  reply,  and  that  he  was  not  ready  with  an  answer. 

If  the  arrangement  that  was  now  suggested  had 
been  hypothecated  while  he  was  dressing,  he  would 
have  laughed  at  the  idea  of  refusing  it;  but  as  Mr 
Kenyon  had  been  speaking,  Arthur  had  seen  a  vision 
of  his  own  future  that  had  been  vaguely  repellent — 
a  vision  of  idle,  satisfied  days  spent  in  perfecting 
himself  at  various  games,  waiting  for  something 
that  he  could  not  precisely  define.  What  was  there 
to  wait  for  in  such  a  life  as  that — except  death? 
Marriage  and  the  begetting  of  children  would  only 
be  incidents,  comparable,  perhaps,  to  the  making 
of  his  first  hundred  break  or  doing  the  course  in 
"bogey."  And  yet,  what  else  had  life,  any  life,  to 
offer  him?  He  had  no  peculiar  gifts.  He  would 
never  become  famous.  The  end  of  him  would  al- 
most certainly  be  a  small  practice  somewhere  and 
a  perpetual  struggle  to  live  within  his  income. 
Nevertheless,  his  spirit  drooped  at  the  prospect  of 
the  life  he  anticipated  if  he  accepted  this  offer. 
There  was  no  adventure  in  it. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     67 

"Frightfully  flattered,  sir,  by  your — your  confi- 
dence in  me  and  so  on,"  he  muttered,  "and,  of 
course,  in  many  ways,  almost  every  way  .  .  ." 

Mr  Kenyon  stopped  him.  "No,  no,  Arthur,"  he 
said,  "I  haven't  even  made  my  proposal  yet;  and 
in  any  case  I  do  not  want  you  to  give  me  an  answer 
to-night.  I  understand  that  at  your  age  you  natur- 
ally have  ambitions,  that  the  future  has  romantic 
possibilities  for  you.  I  have  not  forgotten  that. 
But,"  he  leant  forward,  dropping  his  forehead  on 
to  the  ivory  handle  of  the  stick  he  held  between 
his  knees,  "I  have  a  feeling  that  your  service  would 
not  be  a  very  long  one — six  months,  a  year  perhaps, 
at  the  outside."  His  voice  was  so  low  that  Arthur 
could  hardly  follow  him  as  he  concluded:  "And 
then  you  would  have  .  .  .  opportunity,  greater  op- 
portunity .  .  .  pecuniary  advantages  ...  I  would 
provide  for  that." 

Six  months,  a  year  at  the  outside !  He  probably 
knew  as  well  as  any  one.  He  looked  as  sound  as  a 
bell,  but  he  might  go  to  pieces  all  at  once.  Those 
queer  trances  of  his  were  no  doubt  symptomatic  of 
some  deep-seated  trouble.  Would  it  be  very  rotten 
to  take  on  a  job  like  that  with  the  idea  of  having 
money  left  to  you?  Arthur  fancied  that  he  could 
make  out  a  good  case  for  himself  on  that  score. 
And  beyond  all  that  personal  issue  there  was  a 
greater  one.  Putting  that  hypothetical  legacy  out 
of  the  question,  would  he  not  be  doing  this  old  man 
a  real  service  by  accepting  his  offer?  He  un- 
doubtedly felt  the  need  of  some  one  to  perform  the 
two  offices  he  had  indicated. 

"If  I  might  consider  .  .  ."  Arthur  began,  and 
was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  the  second  gong 
booming  through  the  house. 

Mr    Kenyon    raised    his    head.      "Well,    well, 


68     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

Arthur,  think  it  over,  think  it  over,"  he  said,  getting 
to  his  feet.  "I  will  only  add  now  that  it  would  be 
a  great  relief  to  me  if  you  saw  your  way  to  accept 
my  offer.  Do  not  forget  that  side  of  it.  And — we 
will  have  another  talk  to-morrow." 

Arthur  was  aware  of  a  new  atmosphere  at  the 
dinner-table  that  night.  For  the  first  time  since 
he  had  been  in  the  house,  the  Kenyons  were  wide- 
awake and  curious;  the  object  of  their  curiosity  was 
unquestionably  himself.  They  seemed  to  be  watch- 
ing him.  Whenever  he  looked  up  the  table,  he  had 
the  impression  that  one  of  them  had  just  averted 
his  or  her  eyes,  and  when  he  was  talking  to  Eliza- 
beth or  Miss  Kenyon,  he  was  conscious  of  being 
under  steady  observation  from  every  part  of  the 
table.  Only  Eleanor  kept  her  eyes  down,  and  to 
the  best  of  his  knowledge  never  once  looked  in  his 
direction.  Yet  this  new  attitude  towards  him  had 
no  effect  of  being  hostile.  It  was  merely  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  become  an  object  of  peculiar  interest. 

Even  Miss  Kenyon's  manner  was  changed,  al- 
though it  was  not  until  they  were  half-way  through 
dinner  that  she  put  a  direct  question  to  him. 

"You  had  your  little  talk  with  my  father  this 
evening?"  she  said  then  in  a  tone  that  sounded,  he 
thought,  a  faint  note  of  propitiation. 

"Yes,  I  did;  quite  a  long  talk,"  he  replied,  feel- 
ing no  inclination  to  make  a  confidante  of  Miss 
Kenyon 

"Has  he  asked  you  to  prolong  your  visit  to  us?" 
she  went  on,  making  a  more  direct  attack.  "I  hope 
you  may  be  able  to  stay  over  the  next  week-end  in 
any  case." 

"Thanks  very  much,  I  should  like  to  immensely," 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     69 

Arthur  returned.  "Yes,  Mr  Kenyon  did  suggest 
something  of  the  sort.     In  fact  .  .  ." 

"Well!"  Miss  Kenyon  prompted  him  with  a 
touch  of  asperity. 

"Oh !  well,  in  fact  he  made  a  kind  of  proposal  to 
me  that  we  are  going  to  discuss  again  to-morrow," 
Arthur  admitted. 

Miss  Kenyon  stared  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment. 

"One  more  or  less  doesn't  after  all  make  much 
difference  in  a  family  like  this,"  she  said,  with  a 
touch  of  resignation. 

"But  I  haven't  decided  yet,"  Arthur  began. 

"You  will,"  she  interrupted  him  dryly,  and  at 
once  devoted  her  attention  to  Hubert  on  the  other 
side. 

"Does  that  mean  that  you're  staying  on  inde- 
finitely?" Elizabeth  asked. 

Arthur  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  seems  as  if 
you  all  knew  more  about  it  than  I  do  myself,"  he 
said.     "I  really  don't  know  yet." 

"But  he  wants  you  to?"  Elizabeth  pressed  him. 

"Apparently,"  Arthur  admitted. 

Elizabeth  sighed  thoughtfully.  "You're  a  kind 
of  grand-nephew,  I  suppose,"  she  remarked,  ad- 
dressing no  one  in  particular,  and  then  added, 
"Are  you  going  to  be  a  sort  of  tame  medical  at- 
tendant?" 

"If  I  stay,"  Arthur  agreed. 

"You'll  stay  all  right,"  Elizabeth  replied,  echoing 
her  aunt's  tone.     "Why  shouldn't  you?" 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  stay?"  Arthur  asked. 

"Might  teach  you  to  play  croquet  in  time,"  she 
replied  pertly. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  inquired.    He  felt  as  if  he  were 


70     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

at  last  getting  past  that  barrier  she  had  set  up 
against  him. 

She  met  his  eyes  frankly  and  pursed  her  un- 
doubtedly pretty  mouth.  "Oh,  wait  and  see,"  she 
said. 

"I  can  see  now,  and  I  don't  want  to  wait,"  Arthur 
returned  boldly. 

Her  smile  was  not  one  of  encouragement.  She 
had  suddenly  ceased  to  flirt  with  him.  "Even  pup- 
pies don't  get  their  eyes  open  for  nine  days,"  she 
said  coldly,  "and  you  haven't  been  here  four  yet. 
You  haven't  the  least  idea  what  you're  talking 
about." 

Arthur  frowned  impatiently.  He  was  not  vexed 
by  the  snub  he  had  received — girls  of  Elizabeth's 
type  thought  it  "smart"  to  be  rude — but  by  the 
reintroduction  of  that  suggestion  of  a  family  secret 
which  separated  the  Kenyons  from  the  outside 
world.  There  was  an  air  of  arrogance  about  the 
thing  that  annoyed  him. 

"Is  there  so  much  for  me  to  learn  here?"  he 
asked  dryly. 

Elizabeth  told  him  to  "shut  up." 

This  was  the  way  in  which  she  always  treated 
him;  and  as  he  rather  sulkily  continued  his  dinner 
he  asked  himself  if  it  was  "good  enough."  If  she 
were  willing  to  be  decent,  he  might  possibly  fall  in 
love  with  her,  but  he  was  not  going  to  stand  being 
treated  like  a  schoolboy.  Elizabeth  might  go  and 
hang  herself. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  entice  him  out  of  the 
silence  he  was  thus  too  easily  able  to  maintain  for 
the  rest  of  the  meal. 

But  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  he  found 
that  the  family  as  a  whole  seemed  inclined  to  put 
him  on  a  new  footing.    Even  Mrs  Turner,  who  had 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     71 

so  far  almost  ignored  him,  came  up  and  began  to 
talk  about  the  gardens.  She  was  a  rather  stout 
woman  with  something  of  her  brother's  carelessness 
in  the  matter  of  dress,  and  Arthur  had  wondered 
how  her  husband  had  ever  managed  to  fall  in  love 
with  her.  To-night,  however,  it  occurred  to  him 
for  the  first  time  that  she  might  in  her  youth  have 
been  the  very  prototype  of  her  niece  Elizabeth. 

They  had  only  been  talking  for  a  few  minutes 
when  her  brother  joined  them.  As  usual,  after 
dinner,  his  face  was  flushed  and  puffy — an  effect 
due,  Arthur  judged,  to  the  food  rather  than  to  the 
wine  he  had  taken. 

"So  you're  thinking  of  joining  the  family  party 
for  a  time,  I  hear?"  he  began  in  a  friendly  voice. 

"Well,  I  haven't  decided  anything  yet,"  Arthur 
replied,  and  waited  to  see  if  his  uncle  would  echo 
his  sister's  and  his  daughter's  "You  will." 

He  did  not.  He  was  fidgeting  with  his  cigar,  the 
ash  of  which  he  had  dropped  and  smeared  all  over 
his  dinner-jacket  and  waistcoat. 

"Giving  up  the  Canada  idea,  any  way?"  was  his 
response. 

"It  was  never  more  than  an  idea,"  Arthur  said. 

"Not  a  bad  one,  all  the  same,"  his  uncle  mur- 
mured, and  then  apparently  feeling  that  he  was 
making  a  mess  of  what  he  had  to  say,  he  went  on, 
"However,  it's  not  for  me  to  advise  you.  I  can't 
boast  that  I'm  any  sort  of  example  for  you,  eh, 
Catherine?" 

Mrs  Turner  kept  her  eyes  on  the  bead  bag  she 
was  making,  an  occupation  that  certainly  necessi- 
tated close  attention.  "Don't  you  think,  Joe  .  .  ." 
she  began,  and  then  stopped,  picking  up  a  bead  on 
the  point  of  her  needle  with  a  slightly  exaggerated 
intentness. 


72     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,"  her  brother  said.  "It 
was  only  that  I  thought,  as  Arthur's  uncle,  he 
might  care  to  know — to  hear,  that  is  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  rather.  I  should,"  Arthur  put  in,  as  the 
sentence  failed  to  get  itself  completed.  "I  should 
be  very  glad  of  your  advice." 

"I  was  only  going  to  say,"  his  uncle  responded, 
"speaking  from  my  own  experience,  you  know,  that 
the  life  here,  jolly  enough  as  it  is  in  many  ways, 
does  not  offer  much  scope  for  a  young  fellow  with 
any  ambition.  There's  Hubert,  for  instance — he's 
— he's  getting  lazy — can't  blame  him;  got  nothing 
much  to  do  except  play  golf — but  it's  hardly  the  life 
one  would  have  chosen  for  him,  eh?" 

Arthur  smiled.  "But  I'm  not  proposing  to  stay 
here  permanently ,  uncle,"  he  said.  "Six  months  or 
a  year  at  the  outside.  I've  been  having  rather  a 
strenuous  time  you  see,  and  I  thought  a  rest  of  sorts 
might  do  me  good." 

Joe  Kenyon  and  his  sister  exchanged  a  glance 
that  Arthur  could  not  interpret;  they  might  have 
been  recalling  some  old  and  rather  terrible  reminis- 
cence. 

"My  father  said  that,  did  he?"  Kenyon  said. 
"Six  months  or  a  year  at  the  outside?" 

Arthur  nodded.  He  could  not  possibly  tell  them 
why  that  limit  had  been  assigned. 

Mrs  Turner  sighed  and  returned  to  her  niggling 
beads.  He  brother  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
blew  a  cloud  of  smoke.  Arthur  longed  to  warn 
him  that  the  ash  was  again  in  danger  of  falling. 

"I've  been  here  over  thirty  years,"  his  uncle  re- 
marked thoughtfully. 

Arthur  failed  to  see  the  relevance  of  this  state- 
ment.   "Have  you  really?"  he  commented  politely. 

"And  in  the  first  instance,"  his  uncle  continued, 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     73 

"I  came  back  on  the  understanding  that  it  was  to  be 
for  twelve  months,  at  the  outside.  However," 
he  went  on  more  briskly,  sitting  up  and  incidentally 
dropping  another  large  instalment  of  cigar  a'sh 
down  his  shirt  front  and  waistcoat,  "that's  nothing 
to  do  with  you;  nothing  whatever,  and  I  shouldn't 
like  you  to  be  influenced  by  anything  I've  said. 
Your  case  is  entirely  different  in  every  way."  He 
had  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  been  tempted  into 
an  indiscretion  and  wanted  to  cover  it  without  de- 
lay. 

"Oh,  yes!  obviously,"  Arthur  agreed. 

"You  could  hardly  be  called  a  relation  of  Mr 
Kenyon's,  could  you?"  Mrs  Turner  added,  by  way 
of  giving  point  to  her  brother's  retraction  of  his 
instance. 

uOh !  if  I  came  here,  it  wouldn't  be  in  any  way  as 
a  relation,"  Arthur  explained.  "I  should  come  as 
a  medical  man  for — for  a  certain  purpose." 

Enlightenment  had  come  to  him  at  last,  he  be- 
lieved. These  people  were  jealous  of  his  possible 
share  in  the  Kenyon  fortune.  They,  too,  no  doubt 
knew  of  that  untidy  will  and  its  projected  superses- 
sion; and  they  were  afraid  of  his  having  too  great 
an  interest  in  it.  They  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him. 
All  this  talk  of  his  uncle's  had  been  designed  to 
prevent  him  from  accepting  the  appointment  that 
had  been  offered.  Arthur  blushed  with  shame  at 
the  thought  of  their  suspicion,  the  more  readily 
in  that  the  anticipation  of  some  legacy  had  been  al- 
ready in  his  mind. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  think  I  shall  stay 
on  here,"  he  said,  getting  up.  He  felt  that  he 
could  not  tolerate  the  company  of  these  two  Ken- 
yons  for  another  moment.  They  were  like  all  rich 
people,  mean  and  grasping.     They  had  lived  in 


74     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

comfort  all  their  lives  and  yet  hated  to  part  with  a 
single  penny.  What  difference  would  a  few  thou- 
sands out  of  the  Kenyon  fortune  make  to  them? 

He  looked  round  for  Turner,  but  he  was  not  to 
be  seen.  And  then  he  saw  that  Eleanor  had  come 
in  while  he  had  been  talking  and  was  sitting  alone, 
reading,  on  the  far  side  of  the  room.  She  looked 
up  at  the  same  moment  and  let  her  book  fall  in  her 
lap,  with  a  gesture  that  was  an  invitation  to  him 
to  join  her. 

As  he  crossed  the  room  he  reflected  that  Eleanor 
at  least  would  give  him  an  unprejudiced  opinion. 
There  was  something  honest  and  straightforward 
about  her.  She  was,  for  instance,  utterly  unlike 
Elizabeth. 

She  rose  to  meet  him,  anticipating,  it  seemed, 
what  he  had  to  say,  for  before  he  could  speak  the 
polite  sentence  with  which  he  was  prepared,  she 
said, — 

"It's  rather  hot  in  here  to-night,  isn't  it?  Would 
you  care  to  come  out  into  the  garden?" 

"Love  to,"  Arthur  responded  eagerly. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  enjoyment  as  they 
came  out  into  the  open.  It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock, 
twilight  still  lingered  in  the  garden,  and  the  air 
was  sweet  with  the  aftermath  of  the  perfumes  that 
lilac  and  pinks  and  honeysuckle  had  been  giving 
out  so  generously  during  the  day,  and  that  were 
now  being  refined  by  the  fresh,  cool  scents  of  the 
night.  To  Arthur  it  seemed  that  in  such  a  garden 
as  this  was  attained  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the 
liaison  between  nature  and  cultivation.  Everything 
that  grew  here  was  the  result  of  the  sympathetic 
collaboration  between  man  and  the  wild,  of  art  using 
the  natural  forces  of  the  world  itself  in  the 
technique  of  its  design.     And  the   design  was   a 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     75 

sketch  of  man's  ideal  for  the  perfected  earth;  the 
setting  for  the  more  orderly,  leisured  life  that  he 
might  live  when  the  elemental  forces  were  subdued. 
After  all,  riches  served  a  great  purpose.  Might 
it  not  be  said  that  old  Mr  Kenyon  had  made 
a  worthy  use  of  his  wealth  in  creating  this  gar- 
den? 

"I  suppose  you  want  to  ask  my  advice,"  the  clear 
voice  of  Eleanor  broke  in  upon  his  meditations,  re- 
calling him  rather  unpleasantly  to  the  realisation 
that  he  had  been  five  minutes  before  announcing  his 
intention  of  leaving  this  pleasance  in  order  to  take 
up  the  primitive  struggle  with  the  wild.  It  was 
strange  how  different  everything  appeared  to  him 
out  here,  away  from  the  influences  of  that  luxurious 
house  and  its  bored  inhabitants.  "Yes,  I  do,"  he 
said.  "I  very  much  want  your  advice.  Shall  we  go 
to  that  place  where  you  found  me  with  Hubert  the 
day  I  came  ?  It's  sort  of  shut  in,  gives  one  a  feeling 
of  seclusion." 

She  assented  quietly,  and  they  descended  the 
shallow  steps  of  the  upper  terrace  in  silence,  and 
did  not  speak  again  until  they  were  pacing  the  rec- 
tangular lawn  of  the  "cloister." 

"Will  you  let  me  explain  my  case  to  you  in  the 
first  instance?"  Arthur  began,  and  then  went  on 
apologetically,  "It  is  frightfully  good  of  you  to 
listen  to  me  at  all.  I  don't  know  why  you  should. 
We've  only  met  once  before  practically.  But  you 
said  one  or  two  things  on  that  occasion,  didn't  you, 
that  made  me  feel  you  understand  better  than  any 
of  the  others?  I  can't  help  guessing  in  a  sort  of 
way  that  they're  rather  prejudiced  against  my  ac- 
cepting the  appointment,  and  I  feel  that  you  .  .  ." 

"Why  should  they  be  prejudiced?"  Eleanor  broke 
in. 


76     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

Arthur  was  embarrassed  by  that  direct  question. 
He  saw,  now,  that  he  had  had  no  right  to  make  any 
insinuation  against  the  motives  of  the  family  to 
which  his  companion  belonged.  For  the  moment 
he  had  been  tempted  to  regard  her,  also,  as  being 
an  outsider. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  he  said;  "at  least  I  only 
meant  that  they  all  seem  so  bound  up  in  a  kind  of 
clique,  rather  suspicious  of  strangers." 

Within  that  enceinte  of  box  hedges  it  was  too 
dark  now  for  him  to  see  her  face,  but  the  tone  of 
her  voice  was  appreciably  colder  as  she  said: — 

"And  you  want  to  join  the  clique?" 

"No!  I  don't!"  he  protested  with  a  touch  of 
temper.  "That's  what  they  all  seem  to  think;  and 
as  a  matter  of  rather  brutal  fact,  that  doesn't  tempt 
me  in  the  very  least.  I  wanted  to  explain  to  you,  I 
thought  you'd  understand,  that  the  only  thing  that 
tempts  me  in  the  offer  your  grandfather  made  me, 
was  the  prospect  of  a  little  rest  and  quiet.  I  feel 
that  I've  earned  it.  I've  had  my  youth  stolen  from 
me  and  I  want  to  get  a  little  of  it  back — six  months 
or  a  year  isn't  too  much  return  to  ask  surely?  And 
when  this  miraculous  opportunity  drops  out  of  the 
skies,  as  it  were,  you  want  to  deny  it  me.  Why? 
I  can  understand  the  others.  They've  got  no 
imagination.  They  have  always  had  everything 
they  want  and  they  cannot  see  what  this  rest  would 
mean  for  me.  But  I  thought,  I  don't  know  why, 
that  you  were  different.  I  didn't  expect  you  to 
accuse  me  of  wanting  to  join  the  clique." 

She  ignored  his  reference  to  herself;  taking  up 
a  single  sentence  in  his  speech  by  the  half-whispered 
comment:  "They've  always  had  everything  they 
want!'  To  any  one  from  outside,  I  suppose  they 
do  seem  to  have  had  everything." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     77 

He  overlooked  the  possible  implications  of  that. 
uOh!  well;  you  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said  im- 
patiently; "everything  that  money  can  buy."  He 
was  afraid  that  she  was  going,  as  he  put  it,  to 
preach. 

"But  youVe  evidently  made  up  your  mind  to 
stay  and  have  your  rest,"  she  replied,  going  off  at 
another  angle.  "I  can't  see  why  you  should  bother 
to  ask  my  advice." 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind,"  he  asserted,  "and 
I  do  want  your  advice.  I  only  thought  you  might 
as  well  know  first  just  why  it  tempts  me  so  fright- 
fully to  stay." 

"And  there's  Elizabeth,"  she  put  in,  "you  rather 
like  her,  don't  you?" 

"She's  quite  a  jolly  girl,"  Arthur  replied  coldly. 

Jolly?  he  questioned  that  the  moment  he  had 
spoken,  but  made  no  effort  to  retract  the  adjective. 
He  had  an  inclination  to  depreciate  Elizabeth  now 
that  he  was  with  Eleanor,  an  inclination  that  he  re- 
pressed as  being  in  bad  taste,  even  a  trifle  vulgar. 
Nevertheless,  he  would  have  liked  to  make  it  quite 
clear  that  he  was  not  in  love  with  Elizabeth. 

When  Eleanor  spoke  again,  however,  Elizabeth 
had  fallen  out  of  the  conversation.  "I  do  see  that 
it  looks  like  hard  lines  on  you,"  she  said  more 
gently;  "but  as  you  want  to  know  what  I  really 
think,  I  must  tell  you.  And  all  that  I  can  say  is," 
she  paused,  and  there  was  a  thrill  of  passion  in  her 
voice  as  she  concluded:  "that  if  I  were  you  I  would 
get  away  from  here,  now,  at  once,  to-night  .  .  ." 

"But,  why?"  he  protested,  half  amused  at  the 
fantastic  suggestion  of  his  leaving  Harding  that 
night.  "There  must  be  some  reason,  I  mean,  for 
— well — such  an  extravagant  remedy  as  that." 

"I  can't  give  you  any  reasons,"  she  said. 


78      THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

He  groaned  with  an  intentional  effect  of  exag- 
geration. 

"Have  you  all  got  some  terrible  secret  that  you're 
hiding?"  he  asked.  "I  assure  you  one  really  gets 
that  impression.  I  had  begun  to  wonder  whether 
perhaps  Mr  Kenyon  was  a  dangerous  lunatic  or 
something,  before  I  saw  him  this  evening.  Now, 
I  wonder  if  he's  the  only  one  of  you  that's  perfectly 
sane.  Or  is  it  just  this  beastly  money  of  yours? 
Are  they  afraid  up  at  the  house  that  I  want  some 
of  it,  because  if  they  are  you  can  tell  them  that  I 
don't.  They  all  seem  to  think  I'm  cadging. 
Hubert  began  it  the  first  afternoon  I  was  here. 
I  tell  you  it's  simply  incomprehensible  to  me — the 
whole  attitude." 

Eleanor  did  not  appear  to  be  in  the  least  offended 
by  this  outbreak,  but  her  voice  had  a  new  note  of 
agitation  in  it  as  she  said, — 

"Didn't  my  grandfather  offer  to  do  anything  for 
you,  when  you  were  talking  this  evening?  Didn't 
he  say  anything  to  you  about  his  will?" 

Arthur  was  glad  that  she  could  not  see  the  blush 
that  again  burnt  his  face.  "What  made  you  ask 
that?"  he  said  in  what  he  congratulated  himself 
was  a  non-committal  tone. 

"I  guessed,"  she  replied  quietly.    "Was  I  right?" 

"He  did  mention  it,"  Arthur  admitted. 

"But  that  doesn't  weigh  with  you?" 

"Not  a  scrap;  not  the  least  little  bit  in  the 
world." 

"Bet  it  might  presently." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Think  how  you  might  feel  in  six  months'  time," 
she  persisted;  "after  living  here  in  a  sort  of  luxury, 
at  the  prospect  of  having  to  rough  it  again,  when 
by  simply  going  on  you  might  never  have  to  bother 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     79 

about  money  any  more.  Think  of  the  temptation 
to  take  life  easily,  with  the  probability  of  having 
quite  enough  money  to  live  on  when  my  grandfather 
dies.  And  that  would  always  seem  to  be  a  possi- 
bility only  just  ahead.  He'll  be  ninety-two  in  Oc- 
tober, you  know.  Even  if  you  did  begin  to  want 
work  again  for  its  own  sake,  you'd  put  off  going 
because  it  would  seem  silly  to  risk  losing  that  legacy 
just  for  the  sake  of  staying  on  for  another  month 
or  two.  Can't  you  put  yourself  in  that  position  and 
see  what  a  temptation  it  would  be?" 

Her  speech  had  been  delivered  in  a  level,  weary 
voice,  the  voice  of  one  who  speaks  out  of  experience 
rather  than  from  the  stimulus  of  imagination;  and 
for  a  moment  Arthur  was  impressed  by  her  earnest- 
ness. She  was,  he  supposed,  in  her  modern  way, 
what  one  called  "pious."  She  believed  in  the  great 
gospels  of  work  and  self-sacrifice.  She  wanted  to 
save  him  from  the  snares  of  wealth  as  his  own 
mother  had  once  wanted  to  save  him  from  the 
snares  of  the  devil.  And  just  as  he  had  always  been 
tender  and  forbearing  with  his  mother  when  she 
had  preached  to  him  of  the  dangers  of  the  world, 
so  now  he  must  be  tender  to  this  preacher  of  the 
new  gospel  of  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  was  a  Socialist? 

"Really,  you  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  said  gently. 
"There  isn't  the  least  fear  of  that.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  I'm  too  keen  on  adventure."  (He  had  told 
his  mother  in  precisely  the  same  way,  he  remem- 
bered, that  he  had  been  too  keen  on  his  work  to 
want  to  go  to  music-halls.)  "Perhaps  that's  why 
this  offer  attracts  me  so  much.  It'll  be  a  sort  of 
adventure  to  stay  here  for  a  month  or  two — a  sort 
of  experience  anyway.  So,  honestly,  Miss  Kenyon, 
if  that's  all  you've  got  against  it,  I  don't  see  why 
I  shouldn't  accept.     I  think,  in  any  event,  I  shall 


80     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

tell  your  grandfather  that  I  couldn't  pledge  myself 
in  any  way;  that  I  could  only  agree,  at  the  most, 
to  stay  for  three  months." 

He  heard  her  sigh  deeply,  and  her  reply  when  it 
came  was  unexpected. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "nothing  that  any  of  us 
could  say  is  likely  to  make  the  least  difference.  He 
means  to  have  you.    I'm  going  in  now,  good-night." 

She  had  slipped  away  into  the  darkness  almost 
before  he  was  aware  of  her  intention,  and  he  was 
unable  to  find  her  again. 

There  were  still  many  secrets  in  that  garden 
which  he  had  not  explored,  and  he  caught  no 
glimpse  of  her  as  he  made  his  way  back  to  the 
house. 

He  was  annoyed.  He  wanted  to  cross-examine 
her,  make  her  give  him  some  kind  of  explanation 
of  her  minatory  attitude,  and  especially  of  that  last 
cryptic  speech.  What  did  she  mean  by  saying,  "He 
means  to  have  you?" 

There  was,  certainly,  a  fairly  obvious  interpre- 
tation, namely  that  old  Mr  Kenyon  had  set  his 
mind  on  getting  his  own  way  in  this  matter  of  hav- 
ing a  resident  medical  attendant  at  Hartling — a 
perfectly  reasonable  wish.  But  she  had  not  meant 
that,  or  at  least  not  in  a  reasonable  way. 

Was  it  possible  that  Eleanor  also  was  poisoned 
by  this  degrading  love  of  wealth;  that  all  this  talk 
and  admiration  for  work  and  independence  was  noth- 
ing more  than  an  assumption  to  hide  her  own  fear 
of  another  rival  for  her  grandfather's  testamen- 
tary favour?  Indeed,  was  not  that  the  explanation 
of  the  pretended  secret  of  Hartling?  The  explana- 
tion was  that  there  was  no  secret — unless  it  were 
that    the    whole    Kenyon    family    were    vultures, 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     f| 

crouched  in  a  horrible  group  about  this  one  aged 
man;  waiting  gluttonously  for  his  death  in  order 
to  divide  the  spoil;  determined  that  their  share 
should  not  be  decreased  by  the  addition  of  a  single 
new  member  to  that  gloating  circle.  That  might 
be  called  a  secret;  it  was  certainly  a  detestable  fact 
that  every  one  of  them  would  wish  to  hide. 

Arthur  straightened  his  back  and  lifted  his  chin 
with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  but  he  no  longer  felt  any 
desire  to  leave  Hartling.  It  had  come  to  him  that 
he  had  an  honourable  purpose  to  serve  by  remain- 
ing: he  might  be  a  true  help  and  support  to  the 
aged  head  of  the  house.  Old  Kenyon  was  so  piti- 
ably isolated  from  his  family.  He  must  always  be 
aware  that  he  was  marked  down,  that  the  circle 
of  harpies  was  forever  closing  more  tightly  about 
him,  that  the  only  interest  that  his  descendants 
took  in  him  was  in  the  search  for  symptoms  of  his 
approaching  death.  He  would  surely  welcome  some 
one  coming  from  the  outside,  who  would  have  no 
selfish  object  in  view,  who  would  give  him  real  sym- 
pathy and  understanding. 

Arthur  felt  a  glow  of  self-satisfaction  at  the 
thought.  He  would  make  it  quite  clear,  of  course, 
in  the  coming  interview,  that  no  question  of  any 
legacy  must  complicate  the  arrangement.  That 
should  be  absolutely  definite;  and  yet — it  was  just 
a  whimsical  fancy,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders — 
what  fun  it  would  be  to  cut  out  the  rest  of  the 
family,  to  be  made  one  of  the  principal  heirs  and 
disappoint  those  ghastly  birds  of  prey!  Their  dis- 
appointment would  be  only  momentary.  He  would 
take  the  fortune  solely  in  order  to  hand  it  back  to 
them,  but  in  doing  that  what  an  admirable  lesson 
he  might  read  them ;  what  contempt  he  might  show 


82     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

for  the  pitiful  gaud  of  wealth.  (He  might  possibly 
retain  just  enough  to  give  him  a  small — a  very 
small  independent  income?) 

Above  all,  he  would  like  to  show  Eleanor  how 
miserable  a  vice  was  this  love  of  money,  begetting 
as  it  did  every  kind  of  sham,  insincerity  and  pre- 
tence. In  her,  at  least,  the  vice  could  not  be  deep- 
seated,  and  she  would  be  worth  saving.  She  would 
look  back  on  the  worship  of  riches  with  horror 
once  she  were  away  from  the  influence  of  this  house. 

He  paused  on  the  terrace  and  looked  up  at  the 
perpendicular  lines  of  the  imitation  Tudor  facade, 
dim  and  impressive  in  the  half-darkness.  Yet,  the 
very  house  itself  was  a  sham,  an  anachronism. 
The  Tudors  had  been  autocrats  and  the  principles 
of  autocracy  were  out  of  date.  Even  wealth  was 
no  longer  the  power  it  had  once  been.  The  rich 
were  threatened  on  every  side,  by  taxation  from 
above  and  the  increasing  clamour  and  power  of 
labour  from  below.  They  had  lost  prestige  and 
influence.  .  .  . 

Arthur  Woodroffe  felt  remarkably  full  of  vigour 
that  evening,  confident  in  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
abilities,  and  delightfully  aware  of  his  glorious  in- 
dependence. When  he  reflected  on  the  lives  of  the 
Kenyons  he  at  once  despised  and  pitied  them  for 
their  insane  worship  of  wealth.  He  thought  of 
them  as  poor  trammelled  creatures,  as  vultures  that 
had  lost  the  power  of  flight. 


VI 


VI 

WHEN  Arthur  had  been  five  weeks  at 
Hartling,  he  believed  that  he  knew  the  other 
inmates  of  the  house  as  well  as  he  would  ever  know 
them,  although  he  had  to  admit  to  himself  that  he 
knew  none  of  them  any  better,  now,  than  he  had 
after  he  had  been  there  three  days.  His  social 
relations  with  some  of  the  Kenyons  had  lost  for- 
mality. He  was  familiar  in  his  treatment  of 
Hubert,  on  terms  of  impudence  with  Elizabeth, 
and  of  occasional  persiflage  with  Joe  Kenyon  and 
Charles  Turner.  But  these  intimacies  were  only 
such  as  he  might  have  developed  in  a  month's  stay 
with  them  at  the  same  hotel.  On  both  sides  there 
was  an  effect  of  enforced  toleration,  of  making  the 
best  of  a  casual  temporarily  unavoidable  proximity. 
He  was  still  some  one  who  had  come  in  from  the 
uoutside."  The  Kenyons  never  snubbed  him,  but 
he  could  not  be  quite  at  his  ease  with  them;  he  knew 
that  if  for  any  reason  he  left  Hartling,  the  whole 
family  would  become  for  him  the  chance  acquain- 
tances of  a  prolonged  visit.  He  could  see  himself, 
a  few  months  hence,  meeting  one  of  them  in  the 
street,  pausing  to  exchange  a  few  conventional  in- 
quiries, and  passing  on  with  no  more  than  a  whimsi- 
cal smile  at  a  recollection  of  an  old  adventure. 

There  was,  however,  one  exception.  If  the  de- 
scendants of  old  Mr  Kenyon  had  not  emerged  from 
the  indeterminate  background  of  humanity  in  gene- 
ral, the  old  man  himself  stood  out  as  a  aistinctive, 
even  a  slightly  impressive  figure.    Arthur's  original 

85 


86     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

inclination,  to  pity  the  head  of  the  house,  had  been 
gradually  diverted;  he  was  not  on  closer  acquain- 
tance, a  figure  that  called  for  pity;  and  once  or 
twice  Arthur  had  had  a  strange  sensation  that  was 
almost  akin  to  fear.  There  was,  indeed,  something 
about  old  Kenyon  that  was  not  quite  human,  some- 
thing more  than  that  indescribable  appearance  of 
immortal  old  age.  He  appeared  so  intimidatingly 
detached  from  the  common  cares  and  interests  of 
human  life.  He  had  boasted  of  his  power  to  keep 
in  touch  with  contemporary  movements  and  affairs, 
but  he  was  never  disturbed  by  them.  Nearly  every 
morning  Arthur  spent  an  hour  in  the  old  man's 
company,  and  in  that  time  he  usually  discussed  the 
morning's  news,  but  never  as  yet,  had  Arthur  seen 
him  display  the  least  emotion  with  regard  to  any 
question  of  politics  or  finance.  He  would  speak  of 
the  Irish  situation,  the  starvation  of  Austria,  the 
threat  of  labour  troubles,  the  cost  of  living,  or  the 
burden  of  the  Income  Tax  as  if  they  were  incidents 
in  the  reign  of  George  IV.  rather  than  in  that  of 
George  V.  And  if  Arthur  himself  gave  any  sign 
of  heat  or  partisanship  the  old  man  would  regard 
him  with  the  cold  speculative  eye  of  one  who 
watches  the  lives  and  furies  of  infusoria  under  a 
microscope.  He  seemed  to  have  completely  lost 
the  warm-blooded  human  passion  for  interference 
in  other  people's  affairs. 

There  was  another  aspect  of  him  also  that  was 
giving  Arthur  an  occasional  qualm  of  uneasiness. 
He  had  found  that  the  old  man  was  not  dependable 
in  such  things  as  the  consideration  of  one's  natural 
needs  in  the  matter  of  ready  money.  In  that  second 
interview  when  Arthur  had  put  his  position  quite 
plainly,  acknowledged  himself  willing  to  accept  the 
post  offered  him  for  three  months  on  trial,  and 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     87 

hinted  more  or  less  indirectly,  but  as  he  believed 
quite  plainly,  that  he  would  greatly  prefer  that 
there  should  be  no  question  of  any  posthumous  gra- 
titude, the  essential  point  of  present  remuneration 
in  the  form  of  salary  had  not  been  mentioned.  Nor 
had  any  reference  been  made  to  it  since  that  occa- 
sion. And  the  truth  was  that  Arthur  had  been 
spending  quite  a  lot  of  money  in  the  last  five  weeks. 
His  original  outfit  had  only  been  intended  to  carry 
him  over  a  glorified  week-end,  and  he  had  found  it 
necessary  to  add  to  it.  Also,  he  had  paid  his  en- 
trance fee,  and  a  year's  subscription  to  the  golf 
club,  bought  himself  some  new  clubs,  a  croquet- 
mallet,  a  new  racket,  and  a  billiard  cue,  and  al- 
though he  still  had  a  balance  at  his  bank,  it  had 
begun  to  appear  rather  inadequate  when  regarded 
as  capital  for  starting  a  new  life  in  Canada.  The 
thought  of  his  shrinking  resources  had  begun  to 
embarrass  him,  but  he  had  felt  a  strong  disinclina- 
tion to  approach  the  subject  in  his  conversations 
with  Mr  Kenyon,  moreover,  the  very  fact  that  he 
was  being  paid  nothing  held  a  kind  of  implicit  pro- 
mise that  he  would  be  "remembered"  later.  A 
man  of  old  Kenyon's  wealth  and  position  would  not 
expect  a  qualified  medical  man,  who  was  at  best 
quite  a  distant  connection  to  give  his  services,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  immediate  chances,  and  receive 
no  sort  of  compensation. 

For  in  the  course  of  those  five  weeks  Arthur  had 
lost  some  of  his  scruples  with  regard  to  figuring  in 
Mr  Kenyon's  will.  The  atmosphere  of  the  house 
may  have  had  its  influence  on  him.  Living,  as  he 
presumed  he  did,  among  the  people  who  had  no 
other  ideal  other  than  that  of  inheriting  as  capital 
what  they  now  enjoyed  as  interest,  he  had  come 
by  unnoticed  degrees  to  think  of  that  way  of  life 


88     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

as  being  more  or  less  normal  and  reasonable.  And 
when  he  thought  of  the  future  he  had  already  begun 
to  anticipate  the  probability  of  his  staying  on  at 
Hartling  until  old  Kenyon  died. 

It  was  so  easy  to  find  reasons  for  planning  that 
mode  of  life,  so  difficult  to  contemplate  any  other; 
more  particularly  when  it  seemed  probable  that 
only  by  staying  could  he  hope  to  be  rewarded  for 
his  services.  He  still  fidgeted  occasionally  at  the 
thought  that  he  was  wasting  his  time,  perhaps  his 
life;  but  he  was  steadily  accustoming  himself  to 
luxury,  and  the  thought  of  Peckham  grew  more  and 
more  repulsive  every  day.  He  had  not  written  to 
Bob  Somers  for  nearly  a  month.  He  had  a  definite 
disinclination  even  to  think  of  Somers.  The  life 
at  Hartling  was  very  easy.  He  was  enormously 
improving  his  game  at  golf,  croquet,  and  billiards; 
and,  take  it  all  round,  he  got  on  quite  well  with  the 
family — with  all  the  family — except  Eleanor. 

For  some  reason,  he  and  she  were  still  strangers 
to  one  another.  If  there  was  a  barrier  between 
him  and  the  rest  of  the  Kenyons,  there  was  a  gulf 
between  him  and  Eleanor;  although,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, she  had  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  of  them 
who  was  prepared  to  come  out  and  greet  him  as  a 
friend.  But,  since  he  had  made  his  decision  to 
stay  on  at  Hartling  for  a  trial  period  of  three 
months,  there  had  been  little  intercourse  between 
them,  and  never  once  had  he  been  alone  with  her. 
She  treated  him  with  a  calm  aloofness,  and  he  on 
his  side  had  made  no  overtures.  He  supposed  that, 
for  some  reason  she  disliked  him,  and  had  decided 
that  he,  also,  disliked  her. 

The  first  break  in  the  general  stagnation  in  the 
Hartling  mode  of  life  came  with  the  intrusion  of 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     89 

another  member  of  the  family,  young  Kenyon  Tur- 
ner, the  budding  stockbroker.  He  came  down  for 
a  week-end,  and  Arthur  detested  him  from  the  out- 
set. 

He  had  been  playing  golf  with  Hubert  until  six 
o'clock,  and  his  first  sight  of  the  new  arrival  was 
in  the  garden.  He  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
middle  of  the  terrace  with  Eleanor,  deep  in  what 
appeared  to  be  a  very  engrossing  conversation.  He 
was  an  almost  deliberately  handsome  young  man, 
just  too  well-dressed  in  Arthur's  estimation.  His 
own  Conduit  Street  tailor  had  never  been  able  to 
produce  that,  perhaps  too  noticeable  effect  of  ab- 
solute correctitude.  It  was  probably  not  the  tailor's 
fault,  he  was  too  careless,  or  the  wrong  figure  or 
something.  And  in  any  case,  he  despised  a  man 
who  took  too  much  trouble  with  his  clothes. 

He  decided  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  inter- 
rupt the  tete-a-tete ;  an  intrusion  that  young  Turner 
quite   obviously  resented. 

"Been  playin'  golf?"  he  asked,  with  a  supercilious 
air  when  Eleanor  had  made  the  introduction.  "Not 
my  game.     Don't  get  enough  time  for  it." 

Arthur  noted  that  Turner's  eyes  were  those  of  a 
man  who  was  making  too  great  demands  on  his 
vitality;  tired  eyes,  shadowed  with  dark  lines,  and 
already  thinly  creased  at  the  outer  corners. 

"Good,  healthy  game,"  he  commented,  staring 
rather  contemptously.  "Keeps  you  in  the  open 
air." 

"Oh!  do  you  play  for  medical  reasons?"  Turner 
replied.  "  'Fraid  I  haven't  the  determination  for 
that."  And  as  he  spoke  he  turned  back  to  Eleanor 
intimating  as  plainly  as  he  could  that  he  had  no 
further  use  for  Arthur's  company. 

Eleanor's  tone  had  a  faint  note  of  apology  as 


90     THE,  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

she  said:  "Kenyon  was  asking  my  advice  about 
something." 

Arthur  could  not  resist  that  chance.  "You're 
rather  great  on  giving  advice,  aren't  you?"  lie 
asked,  and  was  surprised  to  see  that  she  winced 
as  if  he  had  hurt  her. 

"Am  I?"  was  all  she  said,  and  Arthur  instantly 
regretted  his  rudeness. 

"I  only  meant,"  he  began,  "that  you  .  .  .  I'm 
sorry.     I  didn't  mean  it  that  way." 

She  smiled  sadly.  "It's  an  ungrateful  task  in 
any  case,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  afraid  that  in  this 
case,  too,  my  advice  will  not  be  taken." 

Arthur  excused  himself  and  went  on  towards  the 
house,  wondering  if  she  were  advising  young  Tur- 
ner, as  she  had  advised  himself,  to  fly  the  tempta- 
tion of  Harding.  Why  had  she  done  that?  He 
was  still  unable  to  find  any  satisfactory  reason  for 
her  recommendation  of  so  drastic  a  course.  He 
could  not  now  believe  that  she  had  been  jealous  of 
his  influence  with  her  grandfather,  and  the  theory 
that  she  had  conceived  so  strong  an  aversion  for  his 
personality  that  she  had  desired  to  scare  him  away, 
was  foolishly  improbable.  Eleanor  was  not  like 
that.  In  some  ways  he  rather  admired  her.  Even 
Elizabeth  always  spoke  nicely  about  her. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  an  air  of  disturbance  up 
at  the  house.  Most  of  the  Kenyons  were  in  the 
drawing-room,  but  instead  of  sitting  about  their 
familiar  occupations,  they  were  gathered  together 
in  a  group,  engaged  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  some- 
what anxious  conference.  Their  talk  ceased 
abruptly  as  he  came  in,  and  both  Mr  and  Mrs  Tur- 
ner faced  round  with  an  expression  that  was  at  once 
expectant  and  apprehensive.     Arthur  would  have 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     91 

gone  out  again  at  once,  but  Turner  hailed  him  by 
saying : — 

"Hallo!  Arthur.    Seen  my  son  anywhere?" 

"Yes,  he's  on  the  middle  terrace  with  Eleanor," 
Arthur  said.  "I  was  just  introduced  to  him,  but  as 
they  obviously  did  not  want  me,  I  came  on  up." 

Turner  looked  at  his  brother-in-law,  Kenyon,  who 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  made  no  further  com- 
ment; and  they  had  returned  to  their  discussion 
with  an  effect  of  rather  desperate  resignation  be- 
fore Arthur  was  fairly  out  of  the  room. 

He  wondered  if  there  were  some  sort  of  affair, 
perhaps  an  engagement,  between  Eleanor  and 
young  Turner;  and  if  the  family  as  a  whole  objected 
on  account  of  the  nearness  of  the  relationship? 
He  decided  that  if  they  consulted  him,  as  they 
generally  did  on  any  matter  presumed  to  be  within 
his  province  as  a  medical  man,  he  would  make  it 
clear  that  a  marriage  of  first  cousins  was  not  neces- 
sarily dangerous.  Nevertheless,  he  despised  Elea- 
nor for  her  choice. 

The  function  of  dinner  was  even  more  formal 
than  usual  that  night,  and  old  Mr  Kenyon  had  a 
prolonged  lapse  of  consciousness  that  kept  them 
all  waiting  for  more  than  five  minutes.  These 
solemn  intervals  of  suspense  always  produced  in 
Arthur  an  effect  of  being  present  at  some  religious 
observance,  and  to-night  he  was  more  aware  of  it 
than  usual.  He  remembered  how,  as  a  youth,  he 
had  been  half-awed  and  half-exasperated  when  he 
attended  the  Sacrament  at  home  by  the  ceremonial 
deliberation  of  his  father.  He  had  had  an  evan- 
gelical tendency,  but  in  this  service  he  had  favoured 
quite  an  elaborate  ritual  of  his  own,  and  his  bearing 
of  the  chalice  and  the  paten  from  the  ambry  to  the 


92     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

altar,  and  the  subsequent  presentation  consecration, 
and  personal  acceptance  of  the  elements  had  been 
conducted  in  a  low,  scarcely  audible  voice,  and  with 
an  air  of  almost  exaggerated  reverence.  Once  or 
twice  Arthur  had  sacrilegiously  wondered  if  his 
father  had  found  an  unusual  satisfaction  in  being 
the  sole  human  instrument  and  representative  of 
this  mystery  of  the  consecration,  and  had  unduly 
prolonged  the  periods  of  silence  involved?  And 
to-night,  the  same  thought  crossed  his  mind  with  re- 
gard to  old  Kenyon.  Was  he,  perhaps,  extending 
the  interval  of  waiting  after  he  had  recovered  con- 
sciousness, exulting  in  the  exercise  of  his  power? 

Instinctively  Arthur  glanced  across  the  table  at 
Eleanor.  She  was  sitting  very  still,  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  her  eyes  downcast,  but  he  fancied  that  her 
expression  conveyed  something  of  impatience  and 
revolt.  Did  she  know?  he  asked  himself.  Was 
she  inclined  to  be  critical  of  her  grandfather's 
whims?  Was  she,  perhaps,  desperately  ready  to 
marry  young  Turner  in  order  to  escape  from  Hart- 
ling? 

As  soon  as  the  service  was  released  again,  he 
turned  for  information  to  Elizabeth. 

"Is  anything  up?"  he  asked  in  an  undertone. 
"Anything  out  of  the  ordinary?" 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes 
and  softly  blew  her  relief.  "We  got  a  good  dose 
to-night,"  she  whispered,  and  continued,  "That 
means  there's  going  to  be  a  fuss." 

"About  young  Turner  and  Eleanor?"  he  tried. 

"Eleanor?  Where  does  Eleanor  come  in?"  was 
her  surprised  response. 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought  possibly  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated,  finding  an  unexpected  difficulty  in  putting 
his  guess  into  words. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING     93 

"Nothing  whatever  to  do  with  Eleanor,"  Eliza- 
beth said,  without  waiting  for  him  to  finish  his  sen- 
tence. 

"What  is  it,  then?"  he  insisted. 

"About  him,"  she  said,  indicating  Kenyon  Tur- 
ner.    "I  can't  possibly  tell  you  now." 

But  after  dinner  he  received  enlightenment  as  to 
the  cause  of  the  impending  "fuss"  from  the  prime 
disturber  of  the  peace  himself. 

"Care  to  have  a  game  of  pills?"  he  asked,  com- 
ing over  to  Arthur  as  they  were  leaving  the  dining- 
room. 

His  first  instinct  was  to  refuse.  The  conceit  of 
the  fellow  annoyed  him — he  had  two  lines  of  braid 
down  his  dress  trousers — but  Arthur  was  on  the  top 
of  his  form  just  then,  and  was  spurred  by  a  desire 
to  beat  him  at  what  was,  no  doubt,  his  own  game. 
He  had  been  so  cursedly  supercilious  about  playing 
golf  for  "medical  reasons." 

"Don't  mind,"  he  said  in  the  true  Hartling  man- 
ner of  one  condescending  to  a  casual  visitor  from 
the  outside. 

But  although  he  did,  in  fact,  beat  young  Turner, 
he  realised  that  his  victory  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
his  opponent  was  "off  his  game,"  and  could  prob- 
ably give  him  twenty  in  a  hundred  on  ordinary 
occasions.  Young  Turner's  touch  was  almost  as 
delicate  as  his  father's. 

"I'm  no  earthly  good  to-night,"  he  said,  putting 
down  his  cue  at  the  conclusion  of  the  game.  "AH 
this  business  is  such  an  infernal  worry." 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  at  Hubert — who  had  been 
exercising  his  predestinate  function  of  marker — 1 
rather  than  at  Arthur. 

"You're  not  the  only  one,"  Hubert  commented 
morosely. 


94     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

Arthur,  who  had  been  continuing  a  break  that 
had  not  been  completed  when  he  reached  game, 
straightened  his  back  and  faced  his  cousin.  "What 
is  this  business?"  he  asked. 

Hubert,  who  had  got  into  that  uneasy-looking 
pose  of  his,  looked  down  at  his  crossed  ankles. 

"The  old  man's  so  infernally  difficult,"  he  said. 

"So  cursedly  tight  with  the  money-bags,"  Turner 
explained. 

"Have  you  been  trying  to  milk  him,  then?" 
Arthur  asked. 

"Oh,  well !  the  fact  is  I'm  in  a  hole,  on  the  rocks," 
Turner  admitted.  "I've  put  it  off  as  long  as  I  can, 
but  something  has  cursedly  well  got  to  be  done 
now." 

Hubert  smiled  contemptuously.  "Got  to  be 
done,"  he  repeated.  "Who's  going  to  make  him? 
What  it'll  end  in  '11  be  your  coming  to  live  down 
here!" 

"I'm  damned  if  it  will,"  Turner  declared  vehe- 
mently, but  there  was  a  note  of  fear  in  his  voice 
as  he  continued:  "It's  out  of  the  question.  I  mean 
I'm  not  doing  so  badly  at  the  office  and  all  that. 
If  only  the  old  man  allowed  me  a  decent  screw,  I 
should  be  all  right.  In  an  office  like  ours  you  simply 
have  to  be  in  everything  that's  going.  Sometimes 
one  of  the  partners  '11  put  you  in  to  what  he  thinks 
is  a  good  thing,  for  instance,  and  you're  practically 
bound  to  have  a  fiver  on.  There's  a  lot  of  that  sort 
of  thing  anyhow  you  can't  keep  out  of." 

"And  how  much  notice  d'you  think  the  old  man'll 
take  of  that?"  Hubert  asked,  without  looking  up. 

Turner  almost  whimpered.  "He's  got  to  put  me 
right,"  he  protested,  "absolutely  got  to." 

Hubert  rocked  silently  from  foot  to  foot.  "He 
hasn't,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  you  can't  make  him. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     95 

You  know  that  well  enough.  What  did  Eleanor 
say?" 

"She  promised  to  do  all  she  could,"  Turner  re- 
plied unhopefully,  and  added:  "I'd  sooner  emigrate 
than  come  to  live  down  here." 

"Got  the  money  for  your  passage?"  Hubert  in- 
quired. 

"I  suppose  I  could  get  that  somehow,"  Turner 
said.  "Trouble'd  be  to  dodge  my  creditors.  Be- 
sides, some  of  the  money  must  be  paid — fellows 
in  the  office  and  so  on.     I  couldn't  let  them  down." 

"You'll  be  living  here  before  you're  a  week 
older,"  Hubert  decided.     "Safe  as  houses." 

Turner  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  billiard 
room.  There  was  possibly  a  touch  of  the  histrionic 
in  his  manner  of  doing  it,  but  he  was  without  ques- 
tion genuinely  distressed. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  double  damned  if  I  do!"  he  repeated. 
"It's  all  very  well  for  you — you  seem  to  like  this 
sort  of  life — but  I'd  be  a  raving  lunatic  in  a  month. 
I  simply  couldn't  stand  it.  I — oh!  God!  I'll  make 
the  old  man  pay.  Why  the  devil  shouldn't  he? 
He's  got  more  money  than  he  knows  what  to  do 
with." 

Hubert  was  quite  unmoved  by  his  cousin's  emo- 
tion; indeed  he  seemed  to  take  a  melancholy  pleas- 
ure in  watching  him.  "When  are  you  going  to  see 
him?"  he  asked. 

"To-morrow  morning,"  Turner  said.  "And,  by 
the  Lord,  if  he  refuses  I'll  give  him  a  piece  of  my 
mind." 

Hubert  smiled  sadly.    "Not  you,"  he  commented. 

Arthur  had  not  attempted  to  interrupt  this  con- 
versation. Once  more  he  had  a  sense  of  some 
curious  mystery  behind  the  commonplace  situation. 
Both  Hubert's  dismal  resignation  and  young  Tur- 


96     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

ner's  too  violent  asseverations  hinted  at  some 
quality  in  their  grandfather's  treatment  of  them 
that  Arthur  found  it  difficult  to  associate  with  the 
old  man  himself.  It  was  true,  certainly,  that  he 
had  overlooked  or  forgotten  to  offer  his  medical 
attendant  a  salary,  but  he  had  none  of  the  signs  of 
the  miser.  Arthur  knew  that  he  gave  freely  to 
charities,  and  spent  money  without  stint  on  the  up- 
keep of  Harding.  And  did  he  not  keep  his  whole 
family  in  idleness  from  one  year's  end  to  another? 

"Why  are  you  so  sure  that  your  grandfather  will 
refuse?"  Arthur  now  broke  in,  looking  at  Hubert. 

Hubert  exchanged  a  glance  with  young  Turner, 
and  it  was  the  latter  who  answered. 

"He's  not  sure,"  he  protested.  "Anyway,  I'm 
not." 

Hubert  pursed  his  mouth  and  stared  thought- 
fully at  the  billiard  table. 

"Do  you  think  he'll  have  a  down  on  you  for 
gambling?"  Arthur  asked. 

Turner  laughed  brusquely.  "Well,  hardly,"  he 
said.  "Been  a  pretty  good  gambler  himself  in  his 
day.  That  was  the  way  he  made  most  of  his  money. 
Jolly  shady  some  of  his  business  was  too,  I've  heard. 
He  happened  to  bring  it  off,  so  it  was  all  right. 
If  he  hadn't  he'd  have  found  himself  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  big  door." 

"You  are  a  pretty  damned  fool,  Ken,  to  talk  like 
that,"  Hubert  put  in  softly. 

"Oh,  well!  it  makes  me  so  wild"  Turner  pro- 
tested. "You  know  the  whole  amount's  under  fif- 
teen hundred,  and  what's  that  to  a  man  worth  over 
half  a  million?  The  pater  told  me  this  evening 
that  the  old  chap's  worth  all  that.  Quite  likely  a 
heap  more." 

Hubert  solemnly  closed  his  left  eye,   and  con- 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING     97 

tinued  to  stare  at  the  billiard  table  with  the  other. 
"If  you  come  to  live  down  here,  he'll  put  you  in  the 
will,"  he  remarked. 

Turner  snorted  impatiently.  "It  isn't  good 
enough,"  he  said  crossly.  "Besides,  it's  a  rotten 
game  waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes." 

"Specially  if  you  can't  damned  well  help  your- 
self," Hubert  agreed,  without  the  least  sign  of 
being  offended. 

Arthur's  general  perplexity  was  not  enlightened 
by  this  conversation,  although  he  had  now  no  fur- 
ther doubts  as  to  the  reason  for  Kenyon  Turner's 
visit.  There  still  remained  that  old  suggestion  of 
something  taken  for  granted,  something  that  was 
hidden  from  Arthur  himself.  The  two  men  had 
apparently  spoken  quite  frankly  before  him,  and 
Turner,  at  least,  had  verged  upon  the  indiscreet 
until  Hubert  had  pulled  him  up.  But  behind  all 
their  talk  lay  the  hint  of  an  assumption  that  vio- 
lated Arthur's  feeling  for  common  sense.  This 
particular  refusal  of  money  could  be  accounted  for. 
Old  Mr  Kenyon,  if  he  had  been  a  successful  gam- 
bler himself,  might  feel  a  contempt  for  the  failure, 
or  he  might,  very  reasonably,  dislike  young  Turner. 
But  why  should  he,  in  either  case,  want  him  to 
come  and  live  at  Harding?  Unless  that  alternative 
was  being  held  over  him  as  a  kind  of  threat? 

Nor  did  the  temporary  solution  of  the  immediate 
problem  elucidate  the  general  situation.  Kenyon 
Turner  had  his  interview  with  his  grandfather  on 
Sunday  morning,  and  left  for  town  half  an  hour 
later  in  the  Vauxhall. 

Arthur,  burning  with  curiosity,  made  an  oppor- 
tunity to  get  Hubert  alone  after  lunch. 

"Well,  what  happened  this  morning?"  he  asked. 

"Given  him  a  month,"  Hubert  replied. 


98     THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Arthur  said* 

"Month  to  think  it  over,"  Hubert  elaborated. 
"If  he'll  chuck  the  city  and  come  to  live  down  here, 
the  old  man'll  put  him  straight," 

"And  if  he  won't?" 

"Then  he  can  jolly  well  look  out  for  himself." 

"But,  good  Lord,  why  does  Mr  Kenyon  want 
him  to  come  and  live  here  ?"  Arthur  broke  out. 

"Thinks  he'll  be  company  for  you  and  me,  per- 
haps?" Hubert  suggested. 

"Oh!  rot!  He  must  have  some  reason,"  Arthur 
protested. 

Hubert  scratched  his  eyebrow. 

"Don't  you  know  what  it  is?"  Arthur  persisted. 

Hubert  seemed  to  purse  not  only  his  mouth  but 
his  whole  face.  "Can't  say  I  do,"  he  said,  paused, 
and  then  continued  in  another  voice :  "I'm  up  against 
it  too.  You  know  Miss  Martin,  don't  you? 
Didn't  you  meet  her  up  at  the  club-house  ?  Well — 
it's  a  case  with  her  and  me.  And  what  the  devil 
I'm  going  to  do  about  it,  I  don't  know." 


VII 


VII 

ARTHUR  was  instantly  aware  of  a  change  of  re- 
lationship between  himself  and  Hubert.  His 
cousin's  statement  constituted  a  confidence,  the  first 
he  had  received  since  he  had  been  at  Hartling. 
And  it  seemed  that  the  mere  offer  of  such  a  confi- 
dence revealed  Hubert  in  a  new  light.  At  the  mo- 
ment he  was  no  longer  the  "plus  three"  golfer,  or 
the  holder  of  a  sinecure  waiting  for  dead  men's 
shoes,  but  a  man  with  a  personal  history;  he  had 
ceased  to  be  a  type  and  had  become  an  individual. 

Arthur  responded  without  hesitation. 

"Does  the  old  man  know?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet;  I  haven't  dared  to  tell  him,"  Hubert 
said. 

"But  you  think  he'll  object?" 

"Sure  to." 

"Why.  Doesn't  he  approve  of  Miss  Martin  for 
some  reason?"  Arthur  asked.  He  remembered  her 
now — a  jolly,  brown-eyed,  brown-haired  girl  of 
twenty  or  so,  who  had  chaffed  him  for  his  devotion 
to  golf.  "You're  all  so  dreadfully  serious  over  it," 
she  had  said,  or  words  to  that  effect.  Odd  that  she 
should  fall  in  love  with  the  melancholy  Hubert! 

"He  has  never  seen  her — or  heard  of  her  prob- 
ably," was  Hubert's  answer. 

"But,  good  Lord,  why  are  you  so  sure  that  he'll 
object  then,"  Arthur  said. 

"Well,  the  truth  is  that  we  aren't  too  keen  on 
staying  here — afterwards — after  we're  married,  I 
mean,"  Hubert  admitted. 

IOI 


102  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"And  you  don't  think  the  old  man  could  do  with- 
out you?" 

"Oh!  it  isn't  that.  I  don't  do  anything,  really," 
Hubert  said.  "Rankin  runs  the  place.  I'm  only  a 
figurehead." 

Arthur  had  already  suspected  this  fact,  but  he 
was  surprised  to  hear  his  cousin  state  the  case  so 
frankly. 

"I  thought  you  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  time  on 
your  hands,"  he  commented. 

"Simply  nothing  to  do,"  Hubert  agreed. 

"All  the  same,  you  know  that  your  grandfather 
wants  to  keep  you  here?" 

"He  wants  to  keep  us  all  here,  you  included," 
Hubert  said. 

Arthur  knew  now  that  that  was  true.  But  this 
calm  acknowledgment  of  the  old  man's  peculiarity 
seemed  to  imply  a  comprehension  of  motive  that 
was  as  yet  quite  beyond  his  own  understanding. 

They  had  been  walking  down  through  the  spinney 
towards  the  power-house,  and  Arthur  stopped  in 
the  quietness  of  the  wood  and  laid  his  hand  on  his 
cousin's  shoulder. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  "I  can  see  that.  He  does  want 
to  keep  us  here.  But  why  does  he?  Do  you  know? 
Is  there  some  secret  about  it?" 

"Lord,  no — secret?  Why  should  there  be?" 
Hubert  returned  with  perfect  candour. 

"Seems  so  damned  rum,"  Arthur  said,  frowning. 
"Doesn't  it  to  you?"  And  then  a  queer  analogy 
flitted  across  his  mind  and  he  added:  "It's  like 
Pharaoh  and  the  Israelites.  I  never  could  make 
out  why  he  wanted  to  keep  them." 

"Oh!  he's  like  that,  always  has  been,"  Hubert 
replied,  ignoring  the  uncomplimentary  parallel. 
"And  he  gets  worse.    He's  been  frightfully  difficult 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    ioj 

lately."  He  paused  and  warming  to  a  closer  con- 
fidence, went  on,  "The  devil  of  it  is  that  you  never 
know  what  he's  really  after.  If  he  got  into  a  fear- 
ful pad,  you'd  know  where  you  were,  more  or  less. 
But  he's  always  as  cool  as  a  cucumber.  Makes  you 
feel  such  an  infernal  ass." 

"But  suppose,"  Arthur  suggested,  uthat  you 
simply  didn't  do  what  he  wanted  you  to?  Suppose, 
for  instance,  that  you  stuck  it  out  you  were 
going  to  marry  Miss  Martin  and  be  damned  to 
him.    What  could  he  do?" 

The  mere  suggestion  seemed  to  make  Hubert 
uneasy.  "Couldn't  do  anything  in  a  way,"  he 
grumbled.  "But — well — no  more  could  I.  Her 
people  aren't  well  off  and  I  simply  haven't  got  a 
bean  of  my  own." 

"You  might  get  a  job  somewhere  else  as  an  es- 
tate agent?"  Arthur  put  in. 

Hubert  shook  his  head.  "Those  jobs  are  jolly 
hard  to  get,"  he  said.  "I  have  thought  about  it. 
But  I've  had  no  experience  really,  not  to  count. 
And  naturally  I  shouldn't  get  any  testimonial  from 
the  old  man,  if  I  chucked  this.  Rankin  would  have 
ten  times  the  chance  I've  got  of  a  job  like  that, 
and  you  should  hear  him  let  himself  go  when  he 
gets  cold  feet  about  anything.  He's  got  five  kids, 
you  know,  and  he'd  do  any  mortal  thing  not  to 
offend  the  old  man.  And  then,  of  course,  he  guesses 
that  he's  down  for  a  bit  in  the  will.  They  all  do — 
all  the  servants,  I  mean.  They're  all  hanging  on 
on  low  wages."  He  gave  a  little  bark  of  laughter 
as  he  concluded:  "Like  the  rest  of  us." 

"Rotten,"  Arthur  agreed  sympathetically.  He 
had  begun  to  like  Hubert.  It  was  not  his  fault 
that  he  had  no  backbone.  He  had  never  had  a 
chance  to  develop  one.     And  this  affair  with  the 


io4   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

jolly  Miss  Martin  was  quite  the  worst  kind  of  luck. 

They  were  still  standing  in  the  spinney  wrapped 
about  by  the  peace  of  the  Sunday  afternoon.  It 
was  a  dull,  windless  day,  threatening  rain;  and  the 
very  sounds  of  the  wood  served  to  emphasise  the 
repose  of  humanity.  The  wheel  at  the  generating 
station  was  not  working,  and  except  for  the  distant 
splash  of  the  overfall  and  the  faint  humming  of 
undistinguishable  insects,  the  whole  of  Hartling 
seemed  to  be  plunged  in  sleep. 

Hubert  took  his  cousin's  arm  and  they  walked 
on  slowly  toward  the  power-house. 

"I  expect  you'll  think  it  perfectly  rotten  of  me  to 
ask,"  he  said  in  a  low  confidential  voice;  "but — 
you  don't  think  there  is  any  chance  of  his  breaking 
up,  do  you?" 

Arthur  sincerely  wished  at  the  moment  that  he 
could  give  an  encouraging  reply,  but  he  could  find 
none. 

"Don't  see  any  signs  of  it,"  he  said  almost  apolo- 
getically. "He's  tremendously  sound,  lungs  and 
heart  and  so  on." 

"But  what  about  those  fits  of  his?"  Hubert  asked. 

"Well,  I'm  not  sure,"  Arthur  said.  "They're  a 
bit  hard  to  diagnose.  But  I'm  pretty  sure  they're 
not  a  sign  of  impending  death." 

"And  he  might  go  on  like  he  is — perhaps  for 
years." 

Arthur  hesitated.  Desire  was  urging  his  thought, 
but  he  believed  that  he  was  giving  a  carefully 
weighed  opinion  when  he  replied:  "Well,  it  wouldn't 
surprise  me,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  if  he  went  to  pieces 
all  at  once.  Physically,  I  can't  find  anything  the 
matter  with  him,  but  I've  never  made  a  thorough 
examination.  And,  in  a  case  like  his,  there's  much 
more   than   the   actual   physical   condition   of   the 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    105 

principal  organs  to  be  considered.  IVe  wondered 
if  he  isn't  held  up,  in  a  way,  by  his  will-power.  He 
keeps  himself  so  aloof — if  you  know  what  I  mean? 
Never  lets  himself  get  excited  about  any  mortal 
thing;  hardly  seems  interested,  really  .  .  ." 

"Well,  but  is  there  any  reason  why  he  shouldn't 
go  on  holding  himself  up?"  Hubert  inquired,  as 
Arthur  paused. 

"It  might  break  him  down  if  he  were  badly 
crossed,"  Arthur  said. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  yards,  pon- 
dering the  significance  of  that  last  pronouncement 
before  Hubert  said, 

"Couldn't  do  that,  though,  not  on  purpose.  Be 
pretty  much  like  murder,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Pretty  much,"  Arthur  agreed.  "And  anyway, 
it's  pure  speculation  on  my  part." 

"I  can't  afford  to  cross  him,"  Hubert  went  on,  as 
though  he  had  finally  dismissed  the  thought  of  his 
cousin's  speculations  in  pathology.  "I  expect  you'll 
think  I'm  jolly  soft,  but  I  couldn't  face  being 
chucked  out  of  here  without  a  penny  and  no  pros- 
pect of  getting  a  job." 

"But  surely  Uncle  Joe  would  help  you,"  Arthur 
put  in. 

"The  pater!  Good  Lord!  what  could  he  do?" 
Hubert  said.  "He  hasn't  got  a  red  cent  of  his  own. 
I  don't  suppose  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  a  fiver 
to  save  his  life." 

Once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  the  last  few  weeks 
Arthur  had  had  a  faint  suspicion  that  ready  money 
was  rather  scarce  among  the  Kenyons,  but  he  was 
shocked  by  this  plain  statement. 

"Doesn't  the  old  man  allow  them  anything?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  a  bean — in  cash,"  Hubert  said.    "Of  course 


106    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

we  can  get  anything  we  want  in  reason,  but  the 
old  man  pays  all  the  bills.  He  isn't  a  bit  mean  that 
way.  Never  grumbles.  Draws  the  line  at  jewellery, 
though,  as  you've  probably  noticed." 

Arthur  had  not  noticed  that  omission,  but  he 
instantly  remembered  it,  and  he  saw  now  that  the 
absence  of  jewellery  gave  some  air  of  distinction  to 
the  Kenyon  women.  He  approved  the  old  man's 
taste  in  this  particular.  He  hated  to  see  women 
smothered  in  diamonds. 

"Why's  that?"  he  asked,  passing  by  the  admission 
of  his  failure  to  observe  the  phenomenon. 

"Hates  jewellery;  always  has,"  Hubert  ex- 
plained. "One  of  his  fads.  Says  he'd  as  soon  see 
women  wear  a  ring  in  their  nose  as  in  their  ears." 

Arthur  nodded.  He  had  no  inclination  to  enter 
into  any  discussion  of  the  aesthetic  value  of  jewellery 
as  an  aid  to  the  enhancing  of  woman's  beauty. 
And  he  was  intrigued  for  the  moment  by  the  new 
aspect  of  Hartling  that  Hubert's  confidences  had 
unexpectedly  revealed  to  him.  The  Kenyons  seemed 
to  be  living  a  sort  of  communistic  life,  he  reflected. 
They  had  goods,  everything  they  wanted  in  reason, 
but  no  money.  Well,  it  was  an  easy  life — for  the 
elderly  and  middle-aged.  They  had  no  responsi- 
bilities, no  anxieties.  He  could  understand  now 
why  they  had  all  got  into  such  slack  habits.  After 
all,  why  shouldn't  they?  They  had  no  incentive  to 
do  anything  but  what  they  were  doing.  Indeed,  it 
seemed  that  they  had  no  power  to  alter  their  way 
of  life.  They  were  the  slaves  of  a  benevolent 
autocrat  who  demanded  no  service  from  them  ex- 
cept respect.  Harding  was  a  Utopia,  a  Thelema 
in  which  there  was  no  necessity  for  work;  and  one 
soon  forgot  that  it  was  also  a  prison. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    107 

He  realised  at  the  same  time  that  he  might  have 
drawn  these  inferences  for  himself,  and  was  slightly- 
annoyed  with  his  own  obtuseness.  He  was,  he 
thought,  too  much  inclined  to  take  things  for 
granted.  He  had  come  down  to  Hartling  with 
ready-made  opinions  and  formal  judgments.  He 
had  certainly  been  far  too  willing  to  judge  the 
Kenyons,  without  knowing  any  of  the  facts  of  the 
case.  But  he  condemned  them  no  longer.  It  is  true 
that  they  were  not,  as  Eleanor  might  say,  doing 
any  good  in  the  world,  but  they  were  no  worse  in 
that  respect  than  the  majority  of  rich  people,  and 
the  Kenyons  had  the  valid  excuse  that  they  could 
not  help  themselves. 

Abruptly  his  thoughts  returned  to  Hubert's 
troubles. 

"I'll  admit  it's  rotten  luck  about  Miss  Martin," 
he  said,  as  if  he  were  continuing  their  conversation. 
"But  you  do  get  a  good  time  down  here." 

"If  I'd  the  money  to  emigrate  and  she'd  come 
with  me,  I'd  go  to-morrow,"  Hubert  said,  "and  be 
damned  to  the  good  time." 

Hubert  was  in  love,  Arthur  reflected.  Also,  he 
had  never  known  any  other  condition  and  could  not 
realise  the  horrible  realities  of  dirt  and  disease. 

"Feel  a  bit  uplifted,  I  expect,  just  now,"  he  re- 
marked casually. 

Hubert  stopped  and  faced  him.  "Do  I  look 
uplifted?"  he  asked. 

He  certainly  did  not.  He  had  an  air  of  settled 
melancholy  at  the  best  of  times,  and  at  this  moment 
he  had  apparently  abandoned  himself  to  the  deepest 
gloom. 

Five  weeks  earlier  Arthur  would  have  advised 
his  cousin  to  take  his  courage  in  his  hands   and 


108  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

break  away  from  Harding  at  any  cost — even  as 
Eleanor  had  once  advised  himself — but  now  he 
could  appreciate  to  the  full  Hubert's  difficulty. 

And  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  still 
just  enough  money  to  solve  the  present  problem. 
If  that  expression  of  the  wish  to  emigrate  had  been 
sincere,  he  might  free  his  cousin  by  offering  him 
the  loan  of,  say  two  hundred  pounds.  It  would, 
in  any  case,  be  interesting  to  see  whether  or  not  he 
would  accept  the  chance  if  it  were  given  to  him. 
But  he  knew,  even  as  the  will  to  help  Hubert  rose 
up  in  him,  that  he  was  afraid. 

Old  Kenyon  would  surely  find  out  who  had 
advanced  that  money  and  then  he  would  .  .  . 
Arthur  was  not  quite  sure  what  he  would  do,  but 
he  feared  the  consequences.  He  might  be  turned 
out  of  Hartling;  he  would  certainly  lose  any  hope 
of  that  future  remuneration  for  which  he  was  now 
working. 

The  thought  of  making  an  offer  flashed  through 
his  mind  and  was  rejected.  He  must,  at  least,  have 
his  three  months. 

"Oh !  cheer  up,  old  man,"  he  advised  the  gloomy 
Hubert  with  an  assumption  of  hopefulness. 
"Things  are  never  as  bad  as  you  think  they're  going 
to  be.     Something  will  happen,  right  enough." 

"There's  only  one  thing  that'll  help  me,"  Hubert 
muttered,  as  they  once  more  continued  their  walk. 

"And  that's  bound  to  happen  sooner  or  later," 
Arthur  returned.  "I  dare  say  you  won't  have  to 
wait  much  longer." 

Hubert  gave  a  little  snort  of  impatience.  "Jolly 
fine,"  he  said;  "but  the  pater,  for  instance,  has  been 
practically  waiting  all  his  life." 

Arthur  was  stirred  to  candour.  "In  a  way,"  he 
said,  "but  I  don't  suppose  it  has  worried  him  much." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    109 

"Hasn't  it?    You  ask  him,"  retorted  Hubert. 

Arthur  thought  over  that  for  a  moment  before 
he  said,  "If  I  did,  he  probably  wouldn't  tell  me. 
You're  a  secretive  lot  down  here,  you  know.  You're 
absolutely  the  first  person  who  has  given  me  any 
sort  of  confidence." 

"We  can't,"  Hubert  replied.  "It  isn't  safe.  You 
never  know  what  the  old  man'll  find  out — he's 
damnably  sharp  in  some  things,  and  he's  got  us  all 
as  tight  as  wax.  If  he  chose  to  cut  up  rough,  he 
could  turn  any  of  us  out  of  here  without  a  blessed 
penny.  I  don't  suppose  he'd  like  it,  for  instance, 
if  he  knew  that  I  was  talking  like  this  to  you. 
But — I  don't  know — I  wanted  to  tell  you,  and  that 
affair  of  Ken's  makes  you  think  a  bit,  doesn't  it? 
He's  in  a  cleft  stick  all  right  now — like  the  rest 
of  us." 

Arthur  had  a  memory  of  his  first  night  at  Hart- 
ling,  and  of  the  way  in  which  his  uncle  had  suddenly 
dropped  out  of  the  conversation  after  his  father 
had,  with  apparent  gentleness,  expressed  surprise 
that  his  son  did  not  go  to  live  in  Italy.  Was  it 
possible  that  that  quiet  expression  veiled  a  threat? 

"But  the  old  man's  a  good  sort,  surely,"  Arthur 
protested.  "He  wouldn't  do  anything  absolutely 
rotten,  I  mean." 

"You  never  know  what  he'll  do,"  Hubert  said. 
"You  ask  the  pater  about  Uncle  Jim,  Eleanor's 
father.  I  don't  suppose  he'd  mind  telling  you. 
You're  practically  one  of  us  now,  aren't  you?" 

But  some  spirit  in  Arthur  rebelled  furiously 
against  that  suggestion. 

"Good  Lord,  no;  not  in  that  way,"  he  asserted 
vigorously.  "I'm  perfectly  free  to  go  whenever  I 
want  to.  Even  if  I  haven't  got  a  cent,  I  could 
always  get  a  job  as  a  doctor." 


no  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

uYes,  you  score  there,"  Hubert  agreed,  without 
enthusiasm.     "Wish  to  God  I'd  got  a  profession." 

Their  conversation  was  interrupted  at  this  point 
by  their  arrival  at  the  little  power-house  in  which 
Scurr,  the  engineer-chauffeur,  was  busily  engaged 
on  a  minor  repair  to  one  of  the  temporarily  dis- 
mantled dynamos.  And  as  they  returned  to  the 
house  half  an  hour  later,  Arthur  determinedly 
discussed  certain  alterations  the  Committee  were 
proposing  in  connection  with  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  holes  of  the  golf  course.  He  had  defi- 
nitely quashed  the  assertion  that  he  was  now  to  be 
numbered  among  those  who  were  waiting  for  a 
certain  long  deferred  event,  and  chose  to  think  no 
more  about  that  subject  at  present.  He  was,  as 
he  had  asserted,  free  to  leave  Hartling  whenever  he 
wished.  He  was  not  tied  in  any  way,  he  never 
could  be.  And  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  enjoy  his  three  months'  holiday.  He  was  sorry 
for  Hubert,  but  if  he  had  that  £200,  he  probably 
would  not  dare  to  break  away.  It  would  not  be 
worth  while  for  one  thing,  and  for  another  he  was 
too  "soft,"  spoilt  by  the  ease  of  a  luxurious  life. 

And  Hubert,  on  his  side,  made  but  one  further 
reference  to  his  love  affair.  No  doubt  he  was  afraid 
that  he  had  already  been  rather  indiscreet,  for  just 
before  they  reached  the  house  he  said, — 

"Absolutely  between  you  and  me,  of  course,  what 
I  told  you  this  afternoon." 

"Rather.    Absolutely,"  Arthur  assured  him. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  have  a  slight  feeling  of 
contempt  for  them  all,  Arthur  thought,  even  though 
he  had  began  to  pity  them.  Congratulating  himself 
anew  on  his  own  magnificent  independence,  he  was 
inclined,  just  then,  to  regard  the  Kenyons  as 
parasitic,  bloodless  creatures.     He  had  once  pic- 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    in 

tured  them  as  vultures ;  now  he  saw  them  rather  as 
jackals. 

After  dinner  that  evening,  however,  he  was  in- 
fluenced to  modify  once  again  the  continually 
fluctuating  impression  he  received  of  the  Harding 
household.  He  was  warm  with  the  comfort  of  good 
food  and  good  wine,  and  inclined  to  be  generous 
and  a  trifle  sentimental  when  this  new  record  was 
laid  before  him. 

His  uncle  apparently  knew  something  of  the 
confidences  his  son  had  given  that  afternoon,  for  it 
was  with  a  new,  a  more  intimate  manner  that  he 
came  across  to  Arthur  in  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner. 

"Having  your  usual  game  to-night?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know.  Why?"  Arthur  said.  Of 
all  the  Kenyons,  his  uncle  was,  he  considered,  the 
most  to  be  despised.    He  was  so  confounded  sloppy. 

Joe  Kenyon  made  a  vague  gesture  with  the  hand 
that  held  his  cigar  and  the  long  ash  fell  and  broke 
on  the  carpet.  He  frowned  impatiently,  looked 
down  at  the  ash  and  apparently  decided  to  forget  it. 

"Didn't  know  if  you'd  come  for  a  stroll  in  the 
garden,"  he  said. 

"Right  you  are.  Come  along,"  Arthur  agreed, 
in  a  spasm  of  pity  for  the  futility  of  the  man. 

The  Kenyons  always  sought  the  garden  if  they 
had  anything  of  the  least  importance  to  say,  and 
he  inferred  that  his  uncle  had  some  admission  to 
make  now  concerning  Hubert's  unfortunate  engage- 
ment. Was  it  possible  that  they  wanted  him  to 
be  a  sort  of  intermediary  between  them  and  the 
old  man? 

But  when  they  were  in  the  garden  and  out  of 
earshot  of  the  house,  Mr  Kenyon  displayed  no 
immediate    anxiety    to    discuss    his    son's    affairs, 


ii2  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

Instead  of  that  he  began  to  give  Arthur  what 
seemed  to  be  rather  paternal  advice. 

"Can't  think  why  you  go  off  to  the  billiard-room 
directly  after  dinner,"  he  said,  "when  you've  got 
this.  Billiards  are  all  right  after  dark,  but  you 
miss  the  best  hour  of  daylight  going  in  there  at  nine 
o'clock  this  time  o'  year." 

"Well,  I'm  out  of  doors  all  day,"  was  Arthur's 
excuse. 

"Playing  golf  or  croquet  or  tennis,"  his  uncle 
commented. 

Arthur  was  startled.  This  was  the  last  quarter 
from  which  he  had  expected  a  criticism  of  his  way 
of  life. 

"Didn't  know  you  objected  to  games,"  he  said 
curtly. 

Joe  Kenyon  did  not  appear  to  hear  that.  The 
gray  sky  of  the  afternoon  had  broken,  the  sun  was 
setting  among  a  tangled  mass  of  cloud,  and  he  was 
watching  the  spectacle  with  the  entranced  eyes  of 
a  dreamer. 

"I'll  admit,"  he  murmured  half  apologetically, 
"that  it's  a  trifle  too  dramatic.  But  at  my  age  one 
wants  the  broad  effects.  However,  I  suppose  you 
don't  see  these  things." 

Arthur  turned  his  attention  to  the  sunset.  "Looks 
uncommonly  like  rain,"  he  said. 

His  uncle  laughed.  "We  all  have  our  different 
compensations,"  he  said.  "Yours  is  games  and  mine 
the  ability  to  see  things.  However,  I  don't  know 
what  we  should  do  without  'em." 

"Compensations?"  Arthur  repeated.  "I  don't 
know  that  I'd  thought  of  games  in  that  light." 

"You  will  in  time,  if  you  stay  here,"  was  his 
uncle's  answer,  given  a  little  sadly. 

"But  I  don't  mean  to,"  Arthur  asserted. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    113 

Joe  Kenyon  turned  reluctantly  from  the  con- 
templation of  the  sunset  and  looked  at  his  nephew. 
"Then  you'd  better  break  away  while  you  have  the 
chance,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  fool  to  say  this  to  you, 
but  Hubert  told  me  of  your  talk  this  afternoon,  and 
I — well,  I'm  sorry  for  you." 

Arthur  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"You're  getting  drawn  in,  though  you  mayn't 
know  it,"  his  uncle  continued,  "and  if  you  do  your 
life  will  be  wasted.  You'll  be  sucked  dry  like  the 
rest  of  us.  Damn  it,  I  can't  say  more  than  that. 
I  shouldn't  have  said  as  much  if  you  hadn't  been 
so  decent  to  Hubert  this  afternoon." 

Arthur's  conscience  pricked  him,  and  at  the  same 
moment  he  had  a  warm  sense  of  friendship  for  his 
cousin.  "Did  he  tell  you  that?"  he  said.  "I'm  glad 
he  thought  so  anyhow.  I  thought  I'd  been  rather 
rotten  to  him  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

"I  gathered  that  you'd  been  very  friendly,"  Joe 
Kenyon  replied,  his  attention  returning  to  the  sunset. 
"Not  that  you  can  be  of  any  help  in  his  case." 

"I  don't  know,  I  might,"  Arthur  blurted  out  on 
the  impulse  of  the  moment.  "Look  here,  I've  got 
a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  he's  welcome  to,  if  he'd 
care  to  have  it.  He  said  something  about  trying 
his  luck  in  Canada  if  he  could  raise  the  money." 

His  uncle  made  no  answer  for  a  few  seconds,  then 
he  definitely  resigned  himself  to  the  loss  of  the 
sunset,  drew  his  nephew's  arm  through  his  own, 
and  began  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down  the  length 
of  the  broad  gravel  walk  upon  which  they  had  been 
standing. 

"Good  of  you,  Arthur,  very  good  and  generous 
of  you,"  he  said;  "but  it's  no  use.  Hubert's  in  love 
and  he's  a  bit  above  himself,  but  he'd  never  do  any- 
thing in  Canada.    He's  too  soft  and  ignorant.    We 


ii4  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

only  guess  what  the  world's  like  outside  this  place, 
but  the  things  we  do  guess  don't  tempt  us  to 
explore  it."  He  paused  a  moment  before  he  con- 
tinued: "We  don't  talk  about  ourselves,  of  course, 
but  you  must  know  the  truth  pretty  well  by 
this  time — besides,  you're  practically  one  of  us 
now." 

Arthur  was  keenly  interested.  "I'm  not  sure  that 
I  do  know  the  truth,  Uncle  Joe,"  he  said.  "Except 
— well,  Hubert  told  me  this  afternoon  that  your 
father — er — keeps  you  pretty  short  of  cash  and 
so  on;  makes  it  jolly  difficult  for  you  to  sort  of 
— well — break  away." 

Joe  Kenyon  smiled  grimly.  "Difficult!"  he 
repeated,  and  then,  UI  suppose  you  haven't  got  a 
cigar  on  you?  All  right,  never  mind.  I  smoke 
too  much :  that's  another  compensation." 

"Couldn't  you  tell  me  how  things  are,  a  bit 
more?"  Arthur  ventured.  "You  know  I  might  be 
able  to  help." 

"It  isn't  easy  to  tell  you,  you  see,"  Joe  Kenyon 
said,  after  a  short  pause.  "Let's  sit  down.  But 
.  .  ."  he  hesitated,  grunting  and  sighing,  before  he 
blurted  out,  "But  you  might  just  run  up  to  the  house 
and  get  me  a  couple  of  cigars,  there's  a  good  fellow. 
Then,  I'll — I'll  tell  you  a  story.  Only- you  needn't, 
that  is,  I  shouldn't  say  anything  to  the  others  about 
our  being  down  here." 

While  his  uncle  had  been  talking  Arthur's  heart 
had  warmed  to  him,  but  in  the  ten  minutes  that  now 
intervened  while  he  went  to  the  house  for  the  cigars, 
he  had  a  brief  reaction.  As  he  entered  the  house, 
the  habit  of  mind  that  had  been  growing  upon  him 
for  the  past  five  weeks  strangely  reasserted  itself. 
He  was  aware  again  of  the  futility  and  weakness 
of  the  Kenyons,  their  laziness,  their  self-indulgence, 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    115 

and  what  he  could  only  regard  as  the  meanness  of 
their  attitude  towards  the  expected  inheritance. 

And  his  uncle  seemed  to  be  the  very  type  of  all 
these  aspects  of  the  family — a  man  so  idle  and  weak 
that  he  could  not  exist  without  his  cigar  for  half 
an  hour.  He  might  have  endless  excuses,  but  there 
must  be  a  horribly  lax  strain  in  him  somewhere. 
He  was  afraid  even  of  his  own  sisters  and  his 
brother-in-law.  He  had  not  wanted  them  to  know 
where  he  was  and  what  he  was  saying. 

In  deference  to  that  wish,  however,  Arthur  went 
to  the  smoking-room  for  the  desired  cigars — a  room 
that  was  used  as  a  store  and  in  which  no  one  ever 
sat.  There  was  more  or  less  realisable  wealth  there, 
he  reflected,  as  he  opened  a  box  of  his  uncle's  cigars. 

Why,  these  cigars  must  have  cost  over  five  pounds 
a  hundred  before  the  war. 

He  was  crossing  the  hall  on  his  return  to  the 
garden,  when  the  drawing-room  door  opened  and 
Miss  Kenyon  came  out.  Arthur  had  a  feeling  that 
she  had  deliberately  tried  to  catch  him.  He  had 
always  disliked  and  rather  feared  her.  She  was 
different  from  the  other  Kenyons,  more  decided  and 
more  efficient.  He  had  not  modified  his  original 
opinion  of  her  as  a  hard  woman. 

"Going  out?"  she  asked  coldly. 

"Yes;  it's  jolly  in  the  garden,"  Arthur  said. 

"Is  my  brother  out  there?"  she  continued. 

Arthur  hesitated  on  the  edge  of  an  implied 
untruth,  but  she  gave  him  no  opportunity  to 
prevaricate,  adding  almost  immediately, — 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  him  I  want  to  speak  to 
him." 

"I  will,  if  I  can  find  him,"  Arthur  said. 

"Oh!  You'll  know  where  to  find  him,"  Miss 
Kenyon  replied,  and  re-entered  the  drawing-room. 


ii  6   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

It  was  almost  certain,  then,  Arthur  reflected,  that 
she  had  heard  him  and  had  come  out  to  give  him 
that  message.  She  had  probably  seen  him  coming 
up  the  garden,  and  had  some  purpose  in  putting  an 
end  to  his  conversation  with  her  brother.  He  was 
annoyed  by  the  interruption.  He  felt  bound  now 
to  deliver  her  message  and  had  no  doubt  that  it 
would  put  an  end  to  his  uncle's  confidences. 

"I  met  Miss  Kenyon  in  the  hall  as  I  was  coming 
out,"  he  said,  as  he  rejoined  his  uncle.  "At  least, 
I  think  she  must  have  seen  me  coming  up  from  the 
drawing-room  window.  She  came  out  and  told  me 
to  tell  you  that  she  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  and 
went  back  again." 

Joe  Kenyon  was  leaning  back  in  one  of  the  com- 
fortable wicker  chairs  that  were  scattered  about 
the  garden,  and  gave  no  sign  of  being  perturbed  by 
the  message. 

"Got  the  cigars?"  he  asked,  stretching  out  his 
hand,  and  then  after  an  interval  in  the  course  of 
which  he  had  got  the  cigar  satisfactorily  going,  he 
went  on:  "Esther's  so  cautious.  She  thinks  I'm 
indiscreet.  Perhaps  I  am,  but  I  can't  really  see 
what  difference  it  can  make,  so  long  as  we  don't 
say  anything  against  the  old  man.  And  in  any 
case,  I  trust  you,  Arthur.    I  can  trust  you,  can't  I?" 

There  was  a  wistful  note  in  the  last  sentence  that 
robbed  it  of  any  offence,  and  Arthur  was  touched 
by  it.  The  effect  of  his  brief  visit  to  the  house  was 
being  dissipated  already  by  the  surroundings  of  the 
garden. 

"Rather.  Yes,  absolutely,"  he  said  gently.  "I 
mean  what  possible  reason  could  I  have  for  giving 
you  away?" 

Joe  Kenyon  sighed.  "Reason?"  he  reflected. 
"Well,  reason  enough  in  all  conscience." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    117 

Arthur  was  puzzled.     "What?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!  there  you  are,"  his  uncle  replied.  "Either 
you  know  too  little  or  too  much,  and  one  has  to 
trust  you  in  either  case.  But  surely,  my  dear  boy, 
you  can  at  least  see  that  you've  got  it  in  your  power 
to  give  any  of  us  away  to  the  old  man?" 

"Oh,  good  Lord!"  Arthur  ejaculated  in  an  un- 
dertone. He  had  a  horrible  picture  of  the  Kenyons 
living  a  life  of  eternal  suspicion  and  distrust,  fearing 
that  one  or  other  of  them  might  by  some  trick  or 
disloyalty  obtain  an  unfair  hold  on  the  old  man's 
affection.  His  uncle's  next  speech,  however,  de- 
stroyed that  picture  even  as  it  began  to  take  shape. 

"That  doesn't  apply  to  us,  of  course,"  he  said. 
"We've  got  a  sort  of  unspoken  agreement  between 
ourselves.  Had  to  have.  We  hadn't  at  first 
though,  you  know,"  he  continued,  looking  round 
and  changing  his  voice  as  if  he  were  making  an  unex- 
pected announcement. 

"Hadn't  you?"  Arthur  murmured  encouragingly. 

"By  Jove,  no,"  his  uncle  went  on  reminiscently. 
"But  that  was  nearly  forty  years  ago,  of  course; 
just  after  this  place  was  built;  at  the  time  when  I 
tried  to  break  away."  He  paused  a  moment  and 
then  went  on:  "I  wanted  to  be  an  artist.  I've 
got  portfolios  of  stuff  upstairs  if  you'd  ever  care 
to  look  at  'em.  I  dare  say  I  shouldn't  have  been 
any  good,  not  really  first-class,  but  I  can  see  things, 
and  now  and  again  I  can  get  something  down. 
There  was  a  note  of  the  wood  I  made  when  we  first 
came  here,  that  was  rather  good.  I'll  show  it  to  you 
sometime.  The  wood  was  pretty  nearly  all  pines 
then.  The  old  man  planted  those  larches — said  the 
pines  were  too  gloomy.    I  dare  say  he  was  right." 

"And  he  wouldn't  let  you  become  an  artist?" 
Arthur  put  in. 


n8    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"He  didn't  actually  forbid  it,"  Joe  Kenyon  said. 
"But  he  made  it  simply  impossible.  He — well" — 
he  lowered  his  tone  almost  to  a  whisper — "we  used 
to  believe  in  those  days  that  he  had  some  insidious 
disease  or  other.  I  suppose  he  must  have  started 
the  idea  himself.  I  can't  remember.  But  I  know 
that  my  poor  mother  used  to  be  very  depressed 
about  it  at  times.  She  died  in  '83,  you  know,  a 
year  or  two  after  we  came  here  to  live.  However, 
what  with  one  thing  and  another,  there  seemed  to 
be  no  alternative  except  to  put  off  my  going  to 
Paris — from  month  to  month  at  first,  and  after- 
wards from  year  to  year."  He  gave  a  grim  laugh 
as  he  added.  "In  a  way  of  speaking  you  may  say 
it's  going  on  still.  Not  long  ago  at  dinner  I  was 
talking  about  Italy  and  the  old  man  asked  me  why 
I  didn't  go  there." 

"Yes,  it  was  after  I  came.  I  heard  him,"  Arthur 
said.     "But — I  didn't  understand  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  well!  if  I'd  said  I  would,  I  shouldn't  have 
got  the  money  to  go  with  in  the  first  place,"  his 
uncle  explained,  "and  in  the  second  it  would  have 
been  all  up  with  me  so  far  as  the  old  man's  will  was 
concerned.  He  never  threatens  one,  not  directly, 
but  we  know.  And,  well,  I  can't  face  the  thought 
of  the  workhouse.  They  don't  allow  you  cigars 
there,  I'm  told,"  he  concluded  whimsically. 

Arthur  thought  that  he  could  realise  the  old 
situation  fairly  accurately.  His  uncle's  original 
weakness  showed  so  clearly  through  his  narration. 
He  had,  no  doubt,  procrastinated,  and  bargained 
with  himself,  continually  shirking  the  immediate 
necessity  to  take  definite  action.  All  that  side  of  the 
affair  was  comprehensible  enough,  but  what  of  that 
other  point  from  which  the  narrative  had  so  casu- 
ally rambled  away? 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    119 

"Yes,  I  see,"  Arthur  agreed  sympathetically; 
"but  what  was  it  you  were  going  to  say  about  your 
having  some  agreement  among  yourselves,  uncle? 
It  was  apropos  of  my  being  an  outsider,  you  know." 

"We  got  to  understand  it  wouldn't  do,  that's 
all,"  Joe  Kenyon  said,  "not  to  quarrel  among  our- 
selves, that  is.  Esther  was  inclined  to  make  mis- 
chief in  the  old  days.  I  don't  know  whether  I 
ought  to  be  telling  you  all  this.  Anyhow,  we  soon 
saw  that  it  would  never  do  for  us  to  be  jealous  of 
one  another.  We  had  to  find  a  modus  vivendi  and 
— and  take  our  chance.  That  was  after  Catherine 
married  Charles  and  they  had  come  to  live  with  us. 
The  idea  at  that  time  was  that  Charles  was  going 
into  the  Diplomatic  later  on." 

Kenyon  paused,  but  made  no  movement  to  rise 
and  go  up  to  the  house  in  obedience  to  his  sister's 
summons.  His  next  sentence,  however,  apparently 
referred  to  that  issue. 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  there  can't  be  any 
harm,  now,  in  telling  you  these  things.  I  don't 
mind  admitting  that  we've  discussed  it  among 
ourselves — Esther,  Catherine,  Charles,  and  myself, 
that  is.  Of  course  what  Esther  says  is  that  you 
might  go  behind  us,  as  it  were,  but  I  know  there's 
no  sort  of  fear  of  that." 

Arthur  had  never  liked  Miss  Kenyon;  but  now 
he  began  quite  actively  to  hate  her. 

"She  must  have  a  disgustingly  low  opinion  of  me 
if  she  could  think  a  thing  like  that,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"Oh,  well,"  his  uncle  replied  calmly,  "you  get 
like  that  when  you've  lived  here  long  enough. 
Can't  trust  any  one  from  outside.  Never  know, 
that  after  all  these  years,  we  mayn't  be  left  in  the 
lurch.  But,  as  I've  pointed  out  to  'em,  you're 
different." 


120   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

Nevertheless  he  was,  without  doubt,  distinctly 
uneasy.  He  knew  that  he  had  been  indiscreet,  and 
now  was  anxious  for  reassurance.  Twice  in  the  last 
minute  he  had  ended  with  an  assertion  of  belief  in 
his  nephew's  trustworthiness. 

And  it  was  with  a  strong  feeling  of  desire  to 
confirm  that  belief  both  for  his  uncle's  sake  and  his 
own,  that  Arthur  now  said, — 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  help — to  help 
Hubert,  I  mean.  Don't  you  think  I  might  say  some- 
thing to  Mr  Kenyon  about  it?  Reason  with  him? 
I  wouldn't  mind  doing  it  in  the  least.  He  always 
seems  reasonable  enough  when  we're  talking  to- 
gether. A  bit  hard,  perhaps,  rather — what  shall  I 
say? — not  really  interested  in  life,  and  so  on;  but 
not  a  bit — well — unkind — cruel,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean?" 

He  had  expected  an  almost  scornful  refusal  of 
his  offer  to  act  as  an  intermediary,  but  his  uncle 
appeared  ready,  at  least  to  consider  the  proposal. 

"That's  good  of  you,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "but 
there's  another  thing  to  be  thought  of,  too;  Esther's 
dead  against  the  engagement." 

That  announcement  instantly  stiffened  Arthur  in 
his  resolve.  The  thing  was  worth  doing  in  any  case, 
but  the  possibility  of  inflicting  defeat  upon  Miss 
Kenyon  afforded  an  immense  additional  inducement. 

"I'd  like  to  do  it,"  he  said,  with  sudden  ardour. 

Joe  Kenyon  sat  up  in  his  chair  and  turned  to 
face  his  nephew  with  an  effect  of  new  interest. 

"I  don't  for  a  moment  believe  your  embassy  will 
make  the  least  difference,  my  dear  boy,"  he  said 
earnestly;  "but  I,  personally,  should  be  grateful  if 
you'd  undertake  it.  For  Hubert's  sake.  It  would 
be  a — a  tremendous  compensation  for  him  if  he 
were  married,  and — well,  we  don't  know  yet  that 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   121 

the  old  man  will  oppose  the  idea.  At  the  same  time 
I  suppose  you  realise  what  it  may  mean  for  you?" 

"Mean?  Yes.  Well,  I  suppose.  .  .  ."  Arthur 
began,  uncertain  of  his  uncle's  precise  intention. 

"Mean  that  you  may  be  turned  out  of  the  place 
at  an  hour's  notice,"  Joe  Kenyon  interrupted  him. 
"If  you  get  on  the  old  man's  wrong  side  he'll  have 
no  scruples.  That's  what  happened  with  my  brother 
James,  Eleanor's  father,  you  know.  He  wanted 
to  marry  a  girl,  such  a  charming  girl  she  was  too 
— Eleanor  takes  after  her — and  somehow  or  other 
he  put  the  old  man's  back  up.  Poor  old  Jim,  he 
had  an  awful  time — married  Eleanor — Eleanor's 
mother,  you  understand — out  of  hand,  and  they 
practically  starved.  He  used  to  write,  but  we 
couldn't  help  him,  of  course  not  to  count;  and  the 
old  man  wouldn't.  He  was  as  hard  as  nails — hard 
as  nails.  They  were  in  South  America  somewhere, 
Rio,  I  think  it  was,  when  Jim's  wife  died,  and  he 
only  survived  her  about  six  months.  We  heard 
all  about  it  from  a  fellow  called  Payne  and  his  wife. 
Payne  was  in  the  Cable  Company  out  there,  and 
Jim  knew  them  and  asked  them  to  bring  Eleanor 
home.  She  was  only  seven  or  eight  then,  a  dark, 
solemn  little  chit  as  ever  you  saw,  poor  dear.  By 
God!  you  could  tell  she'd  been  through  it.  I  can 
see  them  all  standing  in  the  hall  now.  Payne  was 
a  great  stout  chap  with  a  grayish  beard.  His  wife 
was  a  big  woman  too.  They  had  Lord  knows  how 
many  children  of  their  own,  I  believe.  And  that 
little  solemn  elf  Eleanor  looked  like  a  midget  beside 
them.  Thin  as  a  herring  she  was,  but  as  pretty  as 
a  fairy.  She  was  always  graceful,  even  as  a  bit  of 
a  child — sure  in  her  movements — it  was  a  pleasure 
to  watch  her.  .  .  ." 

Joe  Kenyon  paused  as  if  savouring  his  recollec- 


122'   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

tion,  taking  reflective  pride,  perhaps,  in  his  power 
of  "seeing,"  and  then  continued  with  a  chuckle, 
"And  this  chap  Payne  was  all  taken  aback.  He 
hadn't  expected  a  place  like  this  evidently.  Jim 
hadn't  told  him  anything,  I  suppose,  and  Payne 
probably  thought  we  weren't  much  better  off  than 
Jim.  He  put  it  in  a  bit  thick,  I  remember,  about 
Jim's  poverty  over  there.  Nice,  decent  sort  of 
people.  We  heard  from  'em  once  or  twice  after- 
wards, inquiring  after  Eleanor,  and  then  they  went 
back  to  South  America  and  we  lost  touch  with  them; 
though  I  believe  Eleanor  still  hears  from  them 
occasionally.  However,  what  I  was  going  to  say 
was  that  we  didn't  know,  of  course,  whether  the 
old  man  would  have  Eleanor  or  not.  Esther 
wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  so  in  the 
end  your  aunt  and  I  took  Eleanor  up  to  show  her 
to  the  old  man,  and  as  luck  would  have  it  he  took 
a  tremendous  fancy  to  her.  She's  been  his  favourite 
ever  since."  He  hesitated  a  moment  before  he 
added:  "But  there's  never  been  any  question  of 
our  being  jealous  of  her,  of  course.  She  has  told 
us  that  if  by  any  chance  the  old  man  left  her  the 
bulk  of  his  property,  she  wouldn't  keep  it.  She 
wouldn't,  either;  In  fact  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  sorry 
if  it  was  that  way.  You  could  trust  Eleanor  to  be 
absolutely  fair — and  generous." 

Joe  Kenyon  stopped  speaking,  but  for  a  time 
Arthur  made  no  comment  on  the  story  he  had  just 
heard.  His  attention  seemed  to  be  following  two 
strands  at  the  same  moment.  One  side  of  his  mind 
was  attempting  to  weigh  his  uncle's  motives  in 
making  all  these  confidences.  Had  he  and  his  sister 
been  quarrelling?  There  had  been  more  than  one 
reference  to  Miss  Kenyon  that  had  sounded  dis- 
tinctly bitter,  and  the  emphasis  he  had  laid  on  his 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    123 

last  sentence  might  have  implied  that  he  hoped  that 
if  in  some  moment  of  aberration  his  father  made 
an  unjust  will,  he  might  be  at  the  mercy  of  Eleanor 
rather  than  be  dependent  on  the  goodwill  of  his 
sister. 

The  other  side  of  Arthur's  mind  was  engaged  in 
the  contemplation  of  a  desolate  little  fairy  standing 
in  the  hall  of  Harding  House  solemnly  awaiting 
her  fate.  Even  now,  she  had  sometimes  a  look  of 
desolation,  of  loneliness.  He  wondered  if  she  still 
remembered  her  early  troubles,  if  she  occasionally 
grieved  for  her  father  and  mother? 

"I  hope  I  haven't  bored  you  with  all  this?"  his 
uncle's  voice  murmured.  "It  is — to  tell  you  the 
truth — a  relief  to  let  oneself  go  a  little  to  some  one 
who  doesn't  know.  I  dare  say  you  can't  understand 
that?" 

"I  can.  Rather,"  Arthur  said,  suddenly  appre- 
ciating the  fact  that  his  uncle's  motive  was  the 
purely  personal  one  of  relief.  "I  can  quite  under- 
stand now  you  must  get  fed  up  with  all  this  some- 
times." 

Joe  Kenyon  sighed,  but  he  did  not  otherwise 
comment  on  this  expression  of  sympathy.  "I've 
been  yarning  so,  we've  got  rather  away  from  the 
point,"  he  said.  "But  you  know,  Arthur,  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  into  this  affair  of  Hubert's  without 
knowing  what  you  are  doing.  There  it  is,  my  boy. 
You  may  be  cutting  your  own  throat.  I  assure  you 
the  old  man  will  put  you  out  at  an  hour's  notice 
if  you  happen  to  get  on  his  wrong  side." 

"Honestly,  uncle,  I  don't  care  a  little  hang  about 
that,"  Arthur  affirmed  bravely.  "I  never  meant  to 
stay  here  and  I've  had  a  jolly  six  weeks." 

"Of  course  we  shall  have  to  say  something  to 
Esther  first,"  his  uncle  replied. 


124   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Arthur  agreed  readily,  but  for 
a  moment  his  heart  sank.  Miss  Kenyon's  influence 
was  probably  very  considerable,  he  reflected.  A 
few  minutes  earlier  he  had  been  eager  to  come  to 
a  clash  of  wills  with  her.  He  was  still  ready  to  do 
that.  But  it  might  be  that,  even  if  he  defeated  her 
in  this,  she  would  work  against  him  afterwards, 
and  that  he  would  have  to  leave  Harding.  And 
when  he  faced  that  possibility  he  was  sure  that, 
after  all,  he  did  not  want  to  go.  The  world  outside 
was  an  uncomfortable,  unprotected  place,  in  which 
there  would  be  no  luxuries  for  him,  and  he  would 
have  to  work  very  hard  in  uncongenial  circum- 
stances in  order  to  make  a  bare  living.  Also,  he 
would  be  sorry  to  go  now  that  he  was  just  beginning 
to  know  these  relations  of  his  a  little  better.  Hubert 
was  a  good  chap,  and  so  was  Uncle  Joe.  He  had 
not  properly  understood  them  until  to-day.  And 
now  that  he  knew  her  story,  he  would  like  to  know 
something  more  of  Eleanor.  There  was  something 
fine  about  her,  and  the  thought  of  that  "dark, 
solemn  little  chit"  in  the  hall  made  him  feel  oddly 
tender  towards  her. 

The  darkness  had  fallen,  and  the  clouds  had  re- 
assembled in  tremendous  masses  that  were  moving 
with  strange  swiftness  across  the  sky.  Leaning 
back  and  looking  upward  it  was  interesting  to  con- 
trast the  windless  quiet  of  the  garden  in  which  they 
were  sitting  with  the  evidences  of  the  tumult  above. 

"It's  beginning  to  rain,"  his  uncle  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, breaking  a  long  silence.     "We'd  better  go 


Arthur  was  prepared  for  some  display  of  temper 
on  the  part  of  Miss  Kenyon  when  he  and  his  uncle 
entered  the   drawing-room,   and  was  disappointed 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   125 

to  find  that  she  displayed  her  habitual  air  of  cold 
reserve.  He  was  a  trifle  nervous  and  apprehensive 
now,  about  this  projected  embassy  of  his,  and  would 
have  been  glad  to  have  been  stiffened  by  some  show 
of  active  opposition.  Miss  Kenyon  had,  he  thought, 
something  of  the  same  awful  detachment  that  her 
father  exhibited  towards  every-day  affairs.  All  the 
older  members  of  the  party  were  there.  Turner 
had  a  novel  in  his  hand,  the  three  women  were  busy 
with  their  usual  fancy-work,  but  to-night  they  had 
drawn  together  in  a  group  by  one  of  the  windows, 
with  an  effect  of  being  in  conference. 

Joe  Kenyon's  action  in  pulling  up  a  chair  and 
joining  the  group  held  a  faint  suggestion  of  bra- 
vado. He  had  the  uneasy  air  of  a  man  coming  to  a 
confession  of  his  own  weakness. 

Arthur  preferred  to  stand,  leaning  against  the 
jamb  of  the  window.  It  gave  him  a  physical  sense 
of  superiority  to  look  down  upon  his  antagonist. 

Joe  Kenyon  plunged  at  once  into  what  Arthur 
judged  to  be  relatively  a  side  issue.  "Arthur  and  I 
have  been  talking  about  Hubert's  engagement,"  he 
said.  "Hubert  had  been  telling  him  all  about  it  this 
afternoon;  and  Arthur  has  suggested  that  he  should 
say  something  to  my  father." 

If  he  had  deliberately  intended  an  effect  of  sur- 
prise he  had  attained  his  object.  They  were  un- 
doubtedly startled  by  this  announcement,  and  not 
less  obviously  puzzled.  It  was  not,  however, 
Arthur's  part  in  the  affair  that  seemed  to  perplex 
them.  None  of  them  looked  up  at  him,  they  were 
all  staring  at  Joe  Kenyon,  with  an  expression  that 
seemed,  Arthur  thought,  to  be  seeking  for  a  private 
sign.  But  so  far  as  he  could  see,  none  was  given. 
Joe  Kenyon  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  wip- 
ing his  forehead.    "This  rain  ought  to  cool  the  air 


126   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTUNG 

a  bit,"  he  interjected  in  an  undertone.  "Beastly 
hot  in  here." 

"Very  friendly  of  Arthur,"  Turner  commented, 
turning  slightly  towards  the  young  man  as  he  spoke. 
"No  reason,  after  all,  why  he  should  bother  himself 
about  our  affairs." 

"I  suppose  he  understands  .  .  ."  his  wife  began, 
and  then  stopped  abruptly.  She  was  still  looking 
anxiously  at  her  brother  as  if  inviting  further  con- 
fidences. 

Joe  Kenyon  nodded.  "Oh,  of  course,  of  course," 
he  said.  "Hubert  told  him  all  about  it  this  after- 
noon." 

"About  what,  Joe  ?"  Miss  Kenyon  put  in,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time.  She  gave  him  no  indication 
of  perturbation  or  anxiousness,  but  she  was  reading 
her  brother's  face  as  if  she  sought  some  evidence  of 
his  secret  motive. 

"Well,  about  the  engagement,  and  having  no 
money  and  so  on,"  Joe  Kenyon  rather  desperately 
explained. 

"No  money?"  his  sister  returned,  with  a  lift  of 
her  eyebrows.  "What  do  you  mean,  by  having  no 
money?" 

"Well,  Hubert  hasn't  any,  not  of  his  own,"  her 
brother  replied.  "And  he  was  saying,  I  gather, 
that  he  would  like — well — a  change  of  air  if  he 
were  married.  About  enough  of  us  here,  without 
him,  perhaps.  That  sort  of  thing.  And  Arthur 
very  generously  offered  through  me  to  lend  him  a 
couple  of  hundred  pounds  if  he  wanted  it." 

Whether  or  not  he  had  intended  to  create  a 
diversion  by  this  further  announcement,  he  had 
certainly  achieved  that  object. 

Turner  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  but  it 
was  Mrs  Kenyon  who  answered. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    127 

"Oh,  but  we  couldn't  possibly  accept  that,"  in 
an  agitated  voice;  and  Arthur,  looking  down,  saw 
that  her  hands  were  trembling.  She  was,  he  rea- 
lised then,  by  far  the  most  nervous  of  the  five,  and 
he  recognised  in  her  at  that  moment  a  strong  like- 
ness to  his  own  mother.  She,  too,  had  been  a 
timid  woman,  apprehensive  not  only  of  danger,  but 
also  of  change.  Miss  Kenyon  had  let  her  work  fall 
in  her  lap,  and  was  sitting,  plunged,  apparently,  in 
a  fit  of  deep  abstraction. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,"  Joe  Kenyon  replied.  "I 
have  already  refused  that." 

"On  what  grounds  ?"  Miss  Kenyon  put  in  sharply. 

"Er — I  don't  think — I  suggested,  Esther,  that 
Hubert  would  be — well,  rather  lost  if  he  were  to 
find  himself  in  a  new  country  with  a  wife  to  support 
on  a  capital  of  £200." 

Miss  Kenyon  gave  a  short  impatient  sniff,  and 
turned  to  Arthur.  "A  little  strange,  isn't  it,"  she 
asked,  "for  you  to  offer  to  finance  us?" 

"Only  Hubert,  you  know,"  Arthur  explained. 

"Hubert  has  a  father  and  mother  alive,  to  say 
nothing  of  uncles  and  aunts,"  she  returned.  "I 
don't  know  why  he  should  need  help  from  a  com- 
parative stranger." 

"He  seemed  to  need  it,"  Arthur  said  dryly,  "or  I 
shouldn't  have  made  the  offer." 

Miss  Kenyon  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned 
back  to  her  brother.  "Are  we  to  understand,  Joe," 
she  said,  "that  Arthur  Woodroffe  knows  all  about 
us  now?    Have  you  told  him  everything?" 

"Damn  it,  Esther,  what  do  you  mean  by  every- 
thing?" Joe  Kenyon  exploded  defensively.  "I— it 
seems  to  me — Hubert  had  pretty  well  told  him 
all  that  mattered,  before  I  said  a  word.  I  told  him 
about  Jim,  if  that's  what  you  mean?" 


128    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

Miss  Kenyon  began  to  drum  her  fingers  on  the 
arm  of  her  chair.  "And  what  good  do  you  expect 
to  do  to  yourself  or  anybody  else  by  speaking  to  my 
father  about  Hubert's  engagement?"  she  asked 
Arthur. 

Turner  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  crossed  his 
legs.     "Precisely,  that's  the  real  point,"  he  agreed. 

"Well,  naturally,  I  hope  to  persuade  Mr  Kenyon 
to  sanction  the  engagement,"  Arthur  said. 

"Why?"  snapped  Miss  Kenyon. 

"Friendship  for  Hubert,"  Arthur  said. 

"I  wasn't  aware  that  you  and  he  were  such  great 
friends,"  was  Miss  Kenyon's  criticism  of  that  ex- 
planation. 

"Oh,  well,  pretty  fair,"  Arthur  compromised. 
"Anyhow,  I'll  be  glad  to  help  him  if  I  can." 

"I  can't  imagine  that  anything  you  could  say  to 
my  father  would  carry  the  least  weight,"  Miss  Ken- 
yon said  dryly. 

"Perhaps  not,"  Arthur  agreed.  "No  harm  in 
trying,  though,  is  there?" 

"I  think  that's  quite  true,  you  know,  Esther," 
Mrs  Kenyon  put  in,  "and  it  would  be  rather  a  re- 
lief if — that  is,  I  hope,  for  Hubert's  sake  at  all 
events,  something  can  be  done  to  smooth  things 
over." 

Miss  Kenyon  turned  from  her  sister-in-law  with 
a  slight  suggestion  of  contempt.  "Do  you  know 
this  girl,  Dorothy  Martin?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
her  brother. 

"Slightly,"  he  said.  "Met  her  twice,  I  think. 
Seemed  a  jolly  girl,  I  thought.     Full  of  life." 

"Quite  a  nice  girl,"  his  wife  put  in  eagerly. 

"Oh!  you've  met  her  too,  have  you?"  Miss  Ken- 
yon commented  coldly. 

"At  the  Club  House.    Hubert  took  me  up  there 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    129 

to  tea,  the  day  before  yesterday,  on  purpose  to  in- 
troduce me,"  Mrs  Kenyon  explained,  with  a  pa- 
thetic air  of  apology. 

Arthur  had  drawn  many  false  inferences  about 
the  affairs  at  Harding,  but  it  was  quite  clear  to 
him  now  that  although  there  might,  as  his  uncle 
had  said,  be  some  tacit  agreement  as  to  the  Ken- 
yons'  attitude  toward  the  head  of  the  house,  Miss 
Kenyon  had  certainly  not  been  given  any  confidences 
concerning  Hubert's  engagement. 

"She  has  no  money  of  her  own,  I  suppose?"  was 
the  next  question. 

Joe  Kenyon  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other 
rather  helplessly,  and  it  seemed  that  no  further 
answer  was  needed,  for  Miss  Kenyon  at  once  con- 
tinued, "Folly,  absurd  folly,  and  you  know  it.  If 
Arthur  Woodroffe  likes  to  make  a  fool  of  himself, 
he  can.  What  he  does  or  does  not  do  is  neither 
here  nor  there.  But  I  shall  have  no  hand  in  it,  and 
any  influence  I  have  with  my  father  .  .  ." 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  as  she  spoke,  and  now 
stood  with  her  hands  clenched,  an  erect  and  domin- 
ating figure.  She  was  over  sixty,  but  she  was  still  a 
handsome  woman,  full  of  vitality  and  energy;  and 
at  that  moment  Arthur  could  not  but  concede  her  a 
grudging  measure  of  admiration.  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  seen  her  fully  awake  for  the  first  time.  Her 
rather  pale  blue  eyes  were  suddenly  keen  and  alert, 
and  there  was  an  air  of  mastery  about  her  that  re- 
minded him  of  her  father.  By  the  side  of  her,  Mrs 
Turner  and  her  brother  with  their  sandy-gray  hair 
and  their  tendency  to  an  untidy  corpulence,  seemed 
to  belong  to  another  race.  Esther,  if  the  head  of 
the  house  was  to  be  taken  as  the  standard,  was  the 
only  true  Kenyon  of  the  second  generation,  unless 
Eleanor's  father,   the  errant,  independent  James, 


130    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

had  been  of  his  sister's  breed?  Had  he,  perhaps, 
had  his  sister's  hands  also;  those  white,  strong 
managing  hands  that  were  now  so  threateningly 
clenched? 

She  stood  there  for  a  moment,  dominating  them 
all,  while  she  allowed  the  threat  of  her  unfinished 
sentence  to  take  effect;  then  she  turned  and  left  the 
room  with  a  quiet  dignity  that  was  in  itself  a  men- 
ace. 

Nevertheless,  Arthur  at  least  had  not  been  in- 
timidated by  her  outburst,  and  her  contemptuous 
reference  to  himself  had  provided  him  with  the 
very  stimulant  he  desired.  Moreover,  he  had  now 
a  fierce  desire  to  humiliate  his  handsome  opponent, 
a  desire  that  arose  from  a  new  source.  He  had  seen 
her  as  a  woman  for  the  first  time,  and  he  was  aware 
in  himself  of  a  hitherto  unrealised  impulse  to 
cruelty.  He  wanted  to  break  and  dominate  that 
proud,  erect  figure.  However  sneeringly  she  had 
challenged  him,  and  in  the  zest  of  his  unsatisfied 
youth,  he  longed  to  conquer  her,  although  his  vic- 
tory could  be  but  the  barren  victory  of  the  intel- 
lect. 

He  took  the  seat  Miss  Kenyon  had  just  vacated 
with  a  pleasant  sense  of  mastery.  He  felt  that  he 
could  do  anything  he  liked  with  the  other  four. 
They  were  all  of  them  looking,  just  then,  so  com- 
pletely cowed  and  depressed.  Joe  Kenyon  and  his 
sister  were  crumpled  into  their  chairs,  with  an  air 
of  rather  absurd  dejection.  Mrs  Kenyon  had  re- 
sumed her  fancy  work  and  was  bending  over  it  in 
an  attitude  that  suggested  the  possibility  of  hidden 
tears;  and  Turner,  nervously  twisting  his  exquisitely 
neat  little  moustache,  was  staring  thoughtfully  at 
his  own  reflection  in  the  darkened  window. 

"I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  help  Hubert,  all 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    131 

the  same,"  Arthur  tried,  by  way  of  making  a  be- 
ginning. 

Little  Turner  withdrew  his  gaze  from  the  win- 
dow and  regarded  the  intrepid  youth  with  an  ex- 
pression of  half-amused  pity. 

"You  don't  know"  was  his  only  comment. 

"Well,  I  think  I  do,  to  a  certain  extent,"  Arthur 
said  boldly.  "Uncle  Joe  told  me  a  good  many 
things  to-night,  one  way  and  another.  More  than 
he  cared  to  admit,  perhaps,  before  Miss  Kenyon." 

He  had  made  a  deliberate  bid  for  inclusion  into 
their  secret  counsels  by  that  last  sentence,  and  he 
had  at  least  succeeded  in  stimulating  their  interest. 

"Oh,  well,  well,"  his  uncle  said,  sitting  up  with 
an  effect  of  reinflation,  "perhaps  I  did.  Esther's 
got  a  queer  temper,  now  and  then.  And  possibly 
I  told  you  more  than  was  altogether  discreet.  He 
looked  at  his  brother-in-law  as  he  added,  "I'll  ad- 
mit to  being  a  bit  down  in  the  mouth  about  the 
whole   affair." 

"But  do  you  really  think,"  Mrs  Kenyon  began 
unhopefully,  "that  it  would  be  any  good  for  you 
to  come  into  the  affair  at  all?" 

"Well,  I'm  perfectly  free,  you  know,"  Arthur 
said,  and  instantly  realised  that  he  had  said  the 
forbidden  thing.  They  could  not  bear  that  ad- 
mission of  bondage  in  a  full  company. 

"Can't  see  that  that's  anything  to  do  with  it," 
Turner  replied.  "We're  all  free  enough,  so  far  as 
that  goes.  Point  is,  whether  your  interference  is 
advisable ;  whether  you  might  not  put  Mr  Kenyon's 
back  up  and  make  things  a  hundred  times  worse 
for  Hubert." 

Arthur  chose  to  overlook  the  snub.  "Well,  I 
don't  see  that  it  could  do  any  harm,"  he  said.  He 
felt  pleasantly  young  and  capable  among  those  four 


132    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

old  people;  he  believed  that  they  were  too  inert  to 
oppose  him,  that  they  would  accept  any  leader  cap- 
able of  taking  the  initiative.  "Anything  I  did," 
he  continued,  "would  only  react  on  me,  and  I — 
don't  care.  Uncle  Joe  has  warned  me  that  Mr 
Kenyon  may  sling  me  out  of  the  house  at  an  hour's 
notice,  but  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  take  that  risk." 

No  one  answered  him.  For  the  second  time  in 
two  minutes  he  had  all  too  clearly  displayed  their 
weakness  with  his  youthful  boast  of  freedom,  and 
this  time  they  had  no  defence  but  to  ignore  him. 
For  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  painful,  uneasy 
silence,  and  then  Turner  looked  at  Mrs  Kenyon 
and  said,  in  a  confidential  tone, — 

"What  does  Eleanor  say  about  it  all?  I  suppose 
you've  asked  her  advice?" 

"She  thinks  he'll  be  against  it,"  Mrs  Kenyon  said 
timidly.  "But  nothing  has  been  said  to  him  as  yet. 
She — she  would  like  Hubert  to  go  away — but  I 
can't  see  how — even  if  we  accepted  .  .  ."  She 
glanced  at  Arthur  as  she  concluded. 

"Oh,  well,"  Turner  replied,  standing  up,  "we'll 
have  to  leave  it  at  that  presumably.  No  good  in 
our  interfering,  obviously."  And  he  looked  at  his 
wife,  who  began  to  fumble  her  work  into  an  untidy 
bundle,  preparatory  to  getting  to  her  feet. 

"With  our  own  trouble  hanging  over  us,"  she 
remarked  allusively,  and  added,  "What's  going  to 
happen  to  poor  Ken,  I  don't  know.  He's  deter- 
mined that  he  won't  come  to  live  here." 

They  were  all  standing  now,  saying  good-night, 
but  Joe  Kenyon  lagged  behind  with  Arthur  as  they 
trailed    across    the    spaces    of    the    drawing-room. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  no  good,  you  know,"  he  mur- 
mured, "very  generous  of  you  to  make  the  offer, 
all  the  same." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    133 

When  he  was  alone  in  his  own  delightful  bed- 
room, Arthur  stood  at  the  open  window,  listening 
to  the  sound  of  the  rain  and  inhaling  the  welcome 
scents  of  the  grateful  earth.  Already  his  mood  of 
resentment  against  these  four  impotent  old  people 
had  passed.  They  had  snubbed  and  checked  him, 
given  him  to  understand  that  though  he  might,  in- 
deed, know  something  of  the  facts  of  their  position, 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  spirit.  But  he  could  not 
cherish  anger  against  them,  nor  even  contempt. 
They  had  been  in  shackles  too  long;  he  could  not 
reasonably  expect  them  to  enter  with  him  into  any 
kind  of  conspiracy  against  the  old  man.  They  were 
so  helpless,  so  completely  dependent  upon  his  good- 
will. Nevertheless,  although  they  had  given  him 
no  authority,  he  meant  to  persist  in  his  endeavour 
although  he  risked  expulsion  from  this  Paradise  of 
comfort  and  well-being.  He  was  genuinely  anxious 
to  help  his  uncle,  aunt,  and  cousin,  and  he  thrilled 
at  the  thought  of  crossing  swords  with  Miss  Ken- 
yon.  If  he  defeated  her,  it  would,  indeed,  be  a 
glorious  victory. 

And,  possibly,  Eleanor  would  be  on  his  side?  He 
had  an  amazingly  clear  picture  of  her  in  his  mind, 
a  forlorn,  independent  child,  in  the  midst  of  the 
splendours  of  the  Hartling  hall.  He  could  see  her 
standing  by  the  side  of  the  colossal  elephant's  pad; 
an  amazing  contrast  between  the  slender  and  the 
gross. 

What  was  it  his  uncle  had  called  her?  UA  lovely, 
solemn  little  chit?"  Yes,  she  was  lovely.  He  had 
hardly  realised  it  until  now.  Perhaps  she  would 
change  her  opinion  of  him  after  to-morrow. 


VIII 


VIII 

ARTHUR'S  usual  hour  for  his  morning  inter- 
view with  old  Mr  Kenyon  was  1 1  o'clock,  but 
two  or  three  times  a  week  he  received  a  message 
either  at  breakfast  or  immediately  after,  releasing 
him  from  attendance.  He  had  been  prepared  for 
such  a  reprieve  this  morning,  imagining  that  the  old 
man  might  be  a  trifle  exhausted  by  his  passage  of 
arms  with  Kenyon  Turner  the  day  before,  but  as  no 
message  arrived  he  went  into  the  library  to  read  the 
morning  papers  for  an  hour  and  a  half  before  going 
upstairs. 

All  the  important  journals  were  taken  at  Hart- 
ling,  most  of  them  in  duplicate;  and  Arthur  was 
probably  the  only  member  of  the  household  who 
had  ever  considered  the  expense  involved.  He  had 
calculated  once  that,  including  magazines  and  other 
periodicals,  more  than  a  hundred  pounds  a  year 
were  spent  under  this  head  alone.  But  the  expendi- 
ture of  the  place  was  all  on  the  same  magnificent 
scale.  Arthur  remembered  his  uncle's  whimsical 
comment  that  cigars  were  not  provided  in  the  work- 
house, and  smiled  grimly  at  the  thought  that  the 
inmates  of  Harding  were  the  most  pampered  pau- 
pers in  the  world. 

The  library  was  empty  that  morning.  Arthur 
generally  found  Hubert  there  at  that  time,  but  he 
had  presumably  had  breakfast  even  earlier  than 
usual  and  gone  out.  Nor  did  Mr  Turner,  who  came 
in  half  an  hour  later,  settle  himself  down  there  to 

137 


138    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

his  customary  study  of  the  Times.  Instead  he 
nodded  a  curt  good-morning  to  Arthur,  selected 
half  a  dozen  papers,  and  immediately  retired  with 
them  to  some  other  room. 

After  that  Arthur  was  left  severely  alone.  The 
inference  was  clear  enough:  the  Kenyons  did  not 
wish  to  appear  in  the  cause  he  was  going  to  plead. 
They  might  approve  his  intention  but  they  pre- 
ferred not  to  influence  it.  If  he  failed,  they  would 
deny  any  kind  of  responsibility  for  what  he  had 
said.  Their  attitude  had  been  foreshadowed  in 
the  course  of  their  conversation  the  previous  night. 
"No  good  our  interfering,"  Turner  had  said.  They 
were  afraid  of  being  dismissed  from  their  luxurious 
almshouse. 

Arthur  put  down  his  paper,  walked  across  to  the 
window,  and  stood  there  looking  out  into  the  gar- 
dens. It  had  rained  heavily  in  the  night  and  there 
was  more  rain  coming.  Low  wisps  of  ashen  gray 
cloud  were  travelling  intently  across  the  dark  pur- 
ples of  the  heavy  background,  and  the  horizon  was 
hidden  by  the  mist  of  an  approaching  downpour. 
It  was  not  a  day,  he  reflected,  remembering  many 
such  days,  to  spend  in  going  from  house  to  house 
through  fountains  of  London  mud;  nor  in  receiving 
poor  patients  at  the  surgery.  How  their  wet  clothes 
reeked !  They  brought  all  the  worst  of  the  weather 
in  with  them,  the  mud  and  the  wet  invaded  the  con- 
sulting room;  one  was  never  dry  or  clean  on  such 
days  as  these. 

Instinctively  he  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and 
then  looked  down  at  them.  They  were  better  kept 
than  when  he  had  first  come  to  Harding;  it  had 
been  impossible  to  keep  his  hands  like  that  in  Peck- 
ham.  He  liked  the  brown  of  their  tan,  deeper  on 
the  back  than  at  the  finger  tips,  and  his  nails  were 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   139 

rather  good.  It  was  worth  while  now  to  spend  a 
little  time  on  them. 

Were  the  Kenyons  to  be  pitied?  They  were  not 
free,  of  course,  but  no  one  was  free.  They  were 
certainly  more  free  living  their  life  here  than  he 
would  be  if  he  went  back  to  Peckham.  It  was  a 
dog's  life  that,  even  Somers  couldn't  deny  it. 

The  tall  trees  in  the  garden  were  bent  by  a  rush 
of  wind,  and  the  rain  suddenly  spattered  furiously 
against  the  plate  glass  of  the  window.  How  pro- 
tected one  was  here !  Hartling  windows  did  not 
rattle  in  the  gale,  nor  let  in  the  wet.  A  day  such 
as  this  gave  a  zest  to  the  comfort  of  it  all.  And 
although  one  could  not  go  out  there  was  plenty 
to  do,  any  amount  of  books  to  read,  billiards  with 
Turner,  and  probably  they  would  play  bridge  in 
the  afternoon — his  uncle,  Turner,  and  Elizabeth 
all  played  quite  a  good  game.  .  .  . 

If  the  old  man  turned  him  out  for  interfering  in 
a  matter  in  which  he  was  not  concerned,  he  would 
have  to  go  back  to  Somers  for  a  night  or  two.  If 
he  was  not  very  careful  with  the  little  money  still 
left  to  him,  he  would  have  to  give  up  the  idea  of 
Canada  altogether.  Living  in  a  place  like  this  for 
five  weeks  changed  one's  scale  of  values.  He  did 
not  look  forward  to  ''roughing  it"  so  much  as  he 
had  before  he  came  away  from  Peckham. 

Was  he  pledged  in  any  way  to  plead  Hubert's 
cause  with  his  grandfather?  Would  it  not  be  bet- 
ter from  %ery  point  of  view  to  leave  it  alone?  If 
Hubert's  own  family  would  not  put  in  a  word  for 
him,  why  should  a  comparative  stranger  interfere? 
The  old  man  would  almost  certainly  be  annoyed. 
How  on  earth  tcould  one  open  the  subject  to  him 
without  impertinence?  That  offer  last  night  had 
been  made  in  a  moment  of  sentimental  benevolence. 


140   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

He  had  been  worked  up  by  that  pathetic  story 
Uncle  Joe  had  told  him,  and  they — he  bunched  the 
whole  Kenyon  family  together  in  this  thought  of 
them — could  not  blame  him  if  he  backed  out  at  the 
last  minute.  They  could  not  put  on  airs  in  that  con- 
nection. His  only  regret  would  be  that  Miss  Ken- 
yon would  score.  He  would  have  liked  to  have 
beaten  her,  but  what  possible  chance  had  he  of 
doing  that?  The  fact  was  that  he  was  standing  it 
all  to  nothing.  He  would  be  a  damned  fool  to  risk 
being  turned  out  of  Hartling  just  now,  for  the  sake 
of  a  romantic  notion  of  generosity.  It  was  not  as 
if  his  pleading  were  likely  to  help  Hubert;  it  would 
probably  make  things  ten  times  worse  for  him  by 
putting  the  old  man's  back  up.  .  .  . 

He  heard  the  mellow  chime  of  the  hall  clock 
striking  eleven,  and  reluctantly  turned  to  the  door. 
He  passed  through  the  main  drawing-room  on  his 
way,  and  found  all  the  family  except  Hubert  and 
Eleanor,  sitting  there  engrossed  in  their  usual  occu- 
pations. None  of  them  spoke  to  him  as  he  passed 
through.  Miss  Kenyon  looked  up  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment as  he  came  in,  but  he  could  not  decide  whether 
her  expression  was  one  of  challenge  or  confidence 
in  her  own  ability  to  get  what  she  wanted. 

As  he  slowly  mounted  the  wide  staircase  he  still 
saw  them  all  in  imagination,  waiting  with  a  rather 
pleasurable  excitement  for  the  news  of  his  interview. 
No  doubt  they  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  going 
to  sign  the  order  for  his  own  exile.  Had  they 
waited  in  just  the  same  way  when  James  Kenyon 
had  defied  his  father  twenty-five  years  earlier? 

He  paused  half-way  up  the  stairs  and  looked 
down  into  the  hall.  He  could  see  the  great  ele- 
phant's pad  standing  there,  with  an  effect  of  gross 
and  imperturbable   solidity.      Since   last  night,   he 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   141 

had  come  in  some  odd  way  to  associate  that  clump- 
ing thing  with  Eleanor.  He  could  almost  see  her 
now,  a  slender,  solemn  child,  dusty  with  recent 
travel,  waiting  to  learn  her  destiny.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  Eleanor  whom  he  saw  first  when  he 
entered  Mr  Kenyon's  suite  of  apartments.  She  had 
answered  his  knock — no  one  went  into  those  rooms 
without  knocking — and  he  found  her  standing  near 
the  door  with  an  effect  of  impatience. 

uAre  you  going  to  say  anything  to  him  about 
Hubert?"  she  asked  at  once  in  a  low  voice. 

Arthur  hesitated  before  he  said,  "I've  been 
thinking  that  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  it  would  be 
better  if  I  didn't.  It  might  make  it  worse  for  him. 
I've  no  sort  of  influence  with  Mr  Kenyon,  I  mean." 

She  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  He  could  not 
mistake  the  doubt  in  her  eyes.  She  did  not  believe 
in  the  excuse  that  he  had  put  forward.  She  had 
always  mistrusted  him  for  some  reason  or  other. 

"Well,  have  I?"  he  persisted  feebly. 

"None  whatever,  I  should  imagine,"  she  said; 
"only,  I  thought.  .  .  .  She  paused  and  looked  to- 
wards the  closed  door  of  the  inner  room.  "You're 
ten  minutes  late  now,"  she  added  inconsequently. 

He  was  irated  by  her  attitude  towards  'him, 
her  dismissal  of  him  as  a  person  of  no  importance. 
He  longed  to  show  her  that  he  was  not  a  man  to  be 
lightly  despised.  But  all  he  could  find  to  say  was 
a  foolish,  petulant  accusation  of  her  own  motives. 
Had  she  not  impugned  his? 

"No  doubt  you  would  be  glad  enough  to  see  me 
turned  out,"  he  said,  with  an  almost  childlike  sullen- 
ness.     "You've  always  disliked  me." 

She  stood  quite  still,  staring  past  him  towards 
the  door  of  her  grandfather's  room.  She  was  again 
wearing  the  dress  of  pale  gray  linen  in  which  he  had 


142    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

first  seen  her;  and  she  looked  exquisitely  sweet, 
fresh,  and  young.  But  he  was  glad  that  he  had  been 
rude  to  her.  By  that  rudeness  he  had  shown  that 
he  thought  of  her,  and  that  he  resented  her  opinion 
of  him.  He  would  sooner  that  she  hated  him  than 
that  she  should  be  indifferent. 

"You  think,  then,"  she  said,  after  what  seemed 
to  be  a  long  pause,  "that  you  might  get — turned 
out,  if  you  said  anything  to  my  grandfather  about 
Hubert?    You  know  enough  for  that?  " 

"I  suppose  I  know  pretty  nearly  everything  there 
is  to  know  now,"  he  replied  sulkily. 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  and  then  turned  her 
eyes  away  again.    "Uncle  Joe  told  you?"  she  asked. 

With  some  vague  idea  of  loyalty  in  his  mind, 
Arthur  tried  to  exculpate  his  uncle  by  saying, 
"Partly,  yes;  but  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
suggestion  of  my  speaking  to  Mr  Kenyon  about 
Hubert." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Eleanor  said;  "and  in  any 
case  you've  decided  not  to." 

He  thought  there  was  still  a  hint  of  question  in 
her  tone,  as  if  she  still  hoped  that  he  might  be 
persuaded  to  champion  his  cousin's  cause;  and  he 
grasped  the  opportunity  to  get  back  to  the  point 
she  had,  as  he  believed,  deliberately  passed  by. 

"You  admit  that  I  shan't  do  any  good  to 
Hubert,"  he  said.  "Why  are  you  so  anxious  that  I 
should  get  myself  into  trouble  by  interfering — un- 
less it  is  that  you  want  to  be  rid  of  me?  Because 
if  that's  all,  I  can  go  at  any  time  of  my  own  free 
will." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  she  said  coldly. 

"Then  why  are  you  so  keen  on — on  my  taking 
the  chance  of  offending  Mr  Kenyon?"  he  insisted. 

She  faced  him  with  a  cool,  steady  stare.     "You 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    143 

can't  seriously  believe,"  she  said,  "that  I  should  be 
so  mean  and  small  as  to  persuade  you  into  this  for 
any  purely  selfish  purpose  of  my  own?  Why,  none 
of  them  would  be  as  paltry  as  that." 

He  blushed,  but  he  would  not  drop  his  eyes  from 
hers.  "I'm  to  respect  your  motives,  of  course,"  he 
said  defiantly;  ubut  you're  at  liberty  to  impute  any 
sort  of  cowardice  to  me?" 

"Isn't  it  cowardice  then?"  she  asked,  returning 
his  stare  without  flinching.  "Haven't  you  changed 
your  mind  because  you're  afraid  of  having  to  leave 
here?" 

She  had  defeated  him;  and  realising  that  he  dared 
not  answer  that  question  truthfully,  he  sought  ref- 
uge in  a  youthful  petulance.  "Oh!  very  well,"  he 
said,  turning  his  back  on  her,  and  crossing  the  room 
towards  the  inner  door.  "Have  it  your  own  way. 
You  can  think  anything  you  like  about  me.  /  don't 
care."  He  knocked  and  then  entered  Mr  Ken- 
yon's  room,  without  looking  back  to  see  what  effect 
this  speech  might  have  on  her.  He  was  persuaded 
that  he  did  not  care  any  longer  what  she  thought 
of  him.  She  was  so  confoundedly  self-sufficient  and 
superior. 

Mr  Kenyon  was  reading  the  Times,  a  thing  he 
could  do  without  the  aid  of  glasses.  His  sight  and 
hearing  were  apparently  as  good  as  Arthur's  own. 
But  he  dropped  the  paper  on  his  knees  as  Arthur 
came  in. 

"You've  been  having  a  talk  with  Eleanor?"  he 
remarked  in  his  usual  friendly  tone.  "What  a  won- 
derful girl  she  is,  isn't  she?  I'm  surprised  that 
you  and  she  don't  get  on  better  together.  I  had 
hoped  you  might  be  friends." 

Arthur  was  slightly  taken  aback.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  the  old  man  might  wish  him 


144   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

to  be  on  more  friendly  terms  with  Eleanor.  He 
had  never  before  referred  to  the  subject  in  any  way. 
Had  he,  perhaps,  heard  or  guessed  at  the  quarrel 
between  them  in  the  next  room? 

"I'm  afraid  she  doesn't  like  me?"  he  explained. 

"Oh!  in  that  case  there's  nothing  more  to  be 
said,"  the  old  man  replied  quietly.  "Well,  you 
needn't  stay  this  morning,  if  you've  anything  else 
to  do.     I  had  meant  to  send  you  a  message." 

Arthur  understood  that  he  was  dismissed,  that 
he  might  now  go  back  and  explain  to  the  people 
downstairs  that  he  had  been  given  no  opportunity 
to  act  as  the  family's  catspaw  that  morning.  For 
twenty-four  hours  at  least  he  was  relieved  from 
any  kind  of  obligation,  and  in  the  meantime  he 
could  re-discuss  the  whole  question  with  Hubert 
and  his  father.  There  was  but  one  objection  to 
this  plan;  he  would  have  to  tell  Eleanor  as  he  re- 
turned through   the  next  room. 

He  sighed  and  stood  irresolute.  Mr  Kenyon  had 
returned  to  his  study  of  the  Times.  No  encour- 
agement could  be  hoped  from  that  quarter.  The 
old  man  had  an  amazing  gift  of  detaching  his  in- 
terest from  his  surroundings.  He  had  probably 
forgotten  that  his  attendant  was  still  in  the  room. 
Why  could  not  Eleanor  have  undertaken  this  mis- 
sion herself?  Oh!  obviously  because  she  knew  that 
it  was  futile,  purposeless,  utterly  foolish.  Never- 
theless, he  was  not  going  to  be  accused  of  cowar- 
dice, nor  of  trying  to  propitiate  the  old  man  for  the 
sake  of  being  remembered  in  his  will. 

"Might  I  speak  to  you  a  minute,  sir?"  Arthur 
made  his  opening  curtly,  almost  contemptuously. 
By  the  very  act  of  asking  the  question  he  had  re- 
gained his  freedom.  He  saw  that  his  fear  and  re- 
spect of  the  old  man  before  him  were  based  on  noth- 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    145 

ing  but  the  longing  for  comfort  and  luxury,  for 
abundance  and  idleness.  Now  that  he  had  resolved 
to  leave  Harding  rather  than  endure  the  accusation 
of  cowardice,  all  his  fears  had  slipped  from  him. 

Mr  Kenyon  put  down  his  paper  and  looked  up. 
His  pale  blue  eyes  were  suddenly  intent,  the  eyes 
of  a  hunting  animal  or  a  bird  of  prey,  in  sight  but 
not  yet  sure  of  its  quarry. 

"Sit  down,  Arthur,"  he  said  quietly,  pointing  to 
a  chair  nearly  opposite  to  his  own.  "You  may 
speak  for  an  hour  if  you  wish.  I  have  nothing  to 
do   this  morning." 

"It  was  about  Hubert,"  Arthur  said,  accepting 
the  invitation  to  sit  down.  He  did  not  care  now, 
so  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned,  what  was  the 
upshot  of  this  conversation,  but  while  he  was  about 
it  he  might  as  well  do  his  best  for  poor  old  Hubert. 

Mr  Kenyon  nodded,  gravely  attentive. 

"No  doubt,  sir,  you'll  wonder  what  concern  it  is 
of  mine,"  Arthur  continued,  "but  the  truth  is  that 
I  like  Hubert,  and  I'm  rather  sorry  for  him.  .  .  ." 

"Sorry  for  him?"  Mr  Kenyon  repeated  with  a 
faint  surprise. 

"We  young  men  of  the  present  generation,  sir," 
Arthur  explained,  revelling  now  in  his  sense  of 
liberty,  "think  a  great  deal  of  our  freedom.  I 
don't  mean  to  say  that  Hubert  has  any  particular 
ambition  in  that  direction.  He  was  brought  up  in 
a  different  atmosphere.  But  from  my  point  of  view, 
you  see,  his  life  seems  dreadfully  confined  and 
limited,  though  perhaps  it  is  a  trifle  presumptuous 
for  me  to  be  sorry  for  him  on  that  account." 

"And  you  wish  .  .  .?"  Mr  Kenyon  suggested, 
without  the  least  sign  of  displeasure. 

"Oh,  well!  that's  another  matter,"  Arthur  said. 
"The  fact  is,  sir,  that  Hubert  has  fallen  in  love, 


146  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

and  for  some  reason  that  I  can't  pretend  to  under- 
stand, neither  he  nor  my  uncle  seem  to  care  about 
coming  to  ask  your  consent  to  his  marriage.  So — 
so  I've  come  to  plead  his  cause  for  him." 

"Who  is  the  girl  he  wants  to  marry?"  Mr  Ken- 
yon  put  in.  A  change  had  come  over  him  in  the 
course  of  Arthur's  last  sentences.  He  sat  less  stiffly 
in  his  chair;  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  re-confronted 
by  some  familiar  trouble  with  which  he  had  often 
battled  in  the  past. 

"Her  name  is  Dorothy  Martin,"  Arthur  began. 
"She  .  .  ." 

Mr  Kenyon  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture  of 
his  hand.  "I  know,  he  said,  "her  father  is  Lord 
Massey's  agent — a  homely  fellow  and  rather  stupid. 
So  Hubert  wants  to  marry  Miss  Martin,  does  he?" 
His  head  drooped  a  little  forward  and  he  began 
to  slide  his  hands  slowly  backward  and  forward 
along  his  knees. 

Arthur  felt  suddenly  sorry  for  him.  Neither 
Hubert  nor  his  father  had  told  him  that  Miss  Mar- 
tin's father  was,  to  put  it  bluntly,  not  in  the  Ken- 
yons'  class.  He  understood  better  now  why  they 
had  hesitated  to  approach  the  old  man.  And  how 
decently  he  had  taken  it!  Without  any  sign  of 
anger,  even  of  vexation. 

"I  believe  he's  very  much  in  love  with  her," 
Arthur  murmured. 

Mr  Kenyon  sighed  and  sat  up.  "As  you  re- 
marked just  now,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "you  naturally 
can't  be  expected  to  understand,  and  I  wonder  if  it 
would  be  indiscreet  of  a  very,  very  old  man  to  en- 
lighten you?" 

His  expression  as  he  spoke  was  pathetic,  wist- 
ful; he  looked  at  Arthur  as  if  he  besought  him  to 
approve  the  offered  confidence. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    147 

"You  may  be  absolutely  sure,  sir,  that  I  shall  not 
repeat  anything  you  care  to  tell  me,"  Arthur  as- 
sured him. 

"Nor  let  it  affect  your  relations  with  my  family?" 
the  old  man  added,  and  then  while  Arthur  still 
sought  a  convincing  reply  to  that  rather  difficult 
question,  went  on:  "We  are  necessarily  lonely  in 
our  old  age,  my  boy,  but  I  sometimes  wonder  if  my 
case  is  not  in  some  ways  unusual.  Or  is  it  that  I 
have  suffered  for  overstepping  the  reasonable  limit 
of  mortality?"  He  rose  from  his  chair  as  he  spoke 
and  began  to  pace  slowly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"I  have  taken  a  peculiar  fancy  to  you,  Arthur," 
he  continued  after  a  brief  pause,  "and  I  need  not 
be  ashamed  to  tell  you  why;  it  is  because  I  admire 
the  independence  of  your  spirit.  I  liked  the  way 
you  spoke  to  me  just  now;  your  disregard  of  what 
might  have  been  against  your  own  interests;  your 
championship  of  Hubert.  I  could  wish — I  have 
often  wished — that  there  was  more  of  the  same 
spirit  in  my  own  family." 

Arthur  flushed  with  pleasure.  But  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  understood  now,  finally,  conclusively, 
the  secret  of  the  Kenyons. 

They  were  all  cowards,  and  the  old  man  despised 
them  for  their  cowardice ;  not  one  of  them  had  ever 
had  the  courage  to  stand  up  to  him.  If  he  had,  in 
a  sense,  bullied  them,  it  was  because  he  had  tried 
to  stimulate  them  into  some  show  of  active  re- 
sponse. Nevertheless,  Arthur  attempted  an  excuse 
for  them. 

"Perhaps,  sir,"  he  said,  "if  they  had  had  to  face 
the  world  as  I  have  .  .  ." 

Mr  Kenyon  had  paused  in  his  walk  and  now 
stood  in  front  of  him,  gravely  attentive.  But  as 
Arthur  hesitated,  trying  to  frame  a  statement  that 


148   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

should  not  sound  too  boastful,  the  old  man  held  up 
his  hand. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "I  don't  wish  to  discuss  my 
family  with  you.  My  purpose  is  more  selfish  than 
that.  I  only  want  you  not  to  misjudge  me,  as  you 
might  very  reasonably  do,  in  the  circumstances. 
Downstairs,  no  doubt,  I  may  sometimes  appear  in 
the  light  of  an  autocrat."  And  he  lifted  his  head 
with  a  little  jerk  that  wonderfully  expressed  his 
own  awareness  of  the  absurdity  of  that  accusa- 
tion. 

"You  see,  my  boy,"  he  went  on,  resuming  his  de- 
liberate pacing  of  the  room,  "I  have  long  been 
aware  that  none  of  my  children,  unless  it  be  Esther, 
resemble  me  in  character.  They  are  not,"  he 
smiled  with  an  air  of  excusing  his  choice  of  a  meta- 
phor, unot  fighters.  There  was  my  poor  boy 
James,  Eleanor's  father.  I  don't  know  if  they  have 
told  you  anything  about  him?" 

"I  have  heard  something,"  Arthur  admitted. 

"Oh,  well !  then  you  will  understand  what  a  grief 
his  career  was  to  me,"  Mr  Kenyon  said  with  a  sigh. 
"I  knew  his  weakness  better  than  he  knew  it  him- 
self," he  continued  reflectively,  "but  he  would  not 
listen  to  me.  I've  been  forced  to  take  care  of  them 
all,  because  they  are  none  of  them  able  to  take  care 
of  themselves.  I  would  have  saved  James,  too,  if 
he  would  have  let  me.  And  all  I  insist  upon,  in  re- 
turn, is  that  they  should  stay  here  with  me,  where 
I  can,  in  a  sense,  watch  over  them.  Perhaps  I'm 
getting  senile.  The  old  habit  of  thought  is  too 
strong  in  me.  If  I  let  them  go  out  into  the  world, 
at  their  age,  they  would  surely  be  safe  enough;  but 
the  thought  of  it  arouses  all  my  old  uneasiness. 
But  in  any  case  it  can't  be  long  now." 

He  had  fallen  into  a  brooding  monotone,  as  if  he 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    149 

spoke  his  thoughts  aloud;  and  now  he  raised  him- 
self with  an  effort  and  stared  at  Arthur  as  though 
he  had  become  suddenly  aware  of  his  presence  in 
the  room. 

"So  Hubert  wants  to  marry  Miss  Martin,  does 
he?"  he  asked,  returning  to  the  point  at  issue;  "and 
has  sent  you  to  plead  for  him." 

"No,  he  didn't  send  me,  sir,"  Arthur  explained. 
"It  was  entirely  my  own  idea." 

Mr  Kenyon  smiled  paternally.  "Rash  youth! 
rash  youth!"  he  said.  "Have  you  no  battles  of 
your  own  to  fight?" 

"Well,  at  the  moment,  no  sir,"  Arthur  replied, 
"I  have  been  having  a  very  easy  time  here  for  the 
last  five  weeks." 

"And  now  you're  pining  to  get  back  into  the 
struggle  again,  eh?"  Mr  Kenyon  said,  with  a  lift 
of  his  eyebrows.  "Well,  youth  and  senility  are  the 
ages  of  selfishness,  and  when  there  comes  a  clash 
between  them  it  is  senility  that  always  must  give 
way.  And  yet,  Arthur,  I  should  be  so  glad  if  you 
could  stay  with  me — till  the  end.  I  gave  you  my 
reasons  when  we  first  talked  the  matter  over  to- 
gether. I  can  add  still  another,  now;  I've  taken  a 
great  liking  for  you.  Are  you  absolutely  deter- 
mined to  go?" 

"I?  No,  sir.  I  didn't  mean  .  .  ."  Arthur  stam- 
mered. 

The  old  man  was  watching  him  keenly.  "But 
you  don't  deny  that  you  had  that  in  your  mind, 
when  you  began  to  speak  to  me  about  Hubert?" 
he  said,  and  then,  reading  confirmation  of  that 
statement  in  Arthur's  embarrassment,  he  came  up 
to  him  and  laid  his  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"Natural  enough;  natural  enough,  my  boy,"  he 
said,  "there's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.     And  I 


150  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

wouldn't  ask  you  to  make  the  sacrifice  if  I  were  a 
younger  man.  But  as  it  is  what  difference  will  a 
year,  two  years  at  most,  make  to  you  at  your  time 
of  life?  Come,  now,"  he  smiled  with  a  flash  of 
roguery,  "let's  make  a  bargain!  Your  friend 
^Hubert  shall  have  his  Miss  Martin,  if  you'll  prom- 
ise to  stay  with  me  and  perform  those  little  duties 
I  mentioned  when  I'm  gone." 

"Oh,  of  course,  sir,  rather,"  Arthur  said,  blush- 
ing with  pleasure  and  embarrassment.  "I  would 
promise  that  in  any  case.  There's  no  need  for  any 
— any  quid  pro  quo,  I  mean." 

Mr  Kenyon  still  had  his  hands  on  the  young 
man's  shoulders,  and  he  gave  him  a  gentle  shake  as 
he  said,  "Very  well,  that's  a  bargain  then;  and  I 
may  tell  you  that  you've  taken  a  great  weight  off 
my  mind.  Now,  go  and  tell  Hubert  to  come  up  to 
me.  I'll  promise  to  let  him  off  more  lightly  than  he 
deserves." 

Arthur  strode  out  of  the  room  with  the  conscious 
pride  of  one  who  has  all  life  at  his  feet. 

Eleanor  rose  from  the  desk  at  which  she  was 
writing  as  he  entered. 

"So  you  did  speak  to  him  after  all?"  she  said, 
searching  his  face  with  an  eager,  inquiring  stare. 

m  "Yes,  I  did.  It's  all  right,''  Arthur  returned, 
disciplining  his  expression  of  triumph  to  a  becom- 
ing modesty.  "He  wants  to  see  Hubert  now.  He 
has  promised  to  let  him  off  lightly,"  he  said. 

"And  you're  staying  on?"  Eleanor  inquired. 

"Yes.  He — he  made  me  promise  that."  Arthur 
found  himself  inexplicably  dropping  into  apology. 
"I  couldn't  possibly  refuse  him,  could  I?  You  see 
he  wants  me  to  be  here — at  the  end." 

"I  understand,"  Eleanor  said  coldly,  turning  her 
back  on  him   and  reseating  herself   at  the   desk. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    151 

"Will  you  give  Hubert  the  message  or  shall  I  send 
some  one?" 

"I'll  go,"  Arthur  replied  curtly. 

He  was  suddenly  vexed  and  disheartened.  She 
had  dispersed  all  the  glamour  of  his  achievement; 
had  made  him  feel  as  if  he  had  done  a  mean  rather 
than  a  splendid  thing.  There  could  be  but  one  ex- 
planation of  her  attitude — she  suspected  him  of 
working  on  her  grandfather's  affections.  No  doubt 
she  knew  that  he  had  become  a  special  favourite; 
had  known  it  probably  before  he  knew  it  himself. 
Yet  even  so,  if  there  were  no  jealousy  on  her  part 
— and  Uncle  Joe  had  made  it  certain  last  night 
that  her  motives  were  above  suspicion — why  should 
she  be  so  annoyed?  Was  she  afraid  that  he  might 
be  designing  to  cut  out  the  rest  of  the  family? 

He  had  reached  the  hall  when  that  explanation 
came  to  him,  and  he  paused  there,  burnt  with  shame 
by  the  bare  thought  of  such  a  suspicion.  It  was 
degrading,  infamous.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
endure  that  she  should  hold  such  an  opinion  of  him 
for  another  moment.  He  turned  back  towards  the 
staircase  with  the  intention  of  instantly  challenging 
her,  and  then  a  better  means  of  vindication  occurred 
to  him,  and  he  went  on  into  the  drawing-room. 

They  were  all  there  now,  except  Eleanor;  and 
they  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  their  interest  and 
excitement.  They  faced  the  door  with  what  seemed 
to  be  a  concerted  movement  as  he  entered — and  at 
once  misread  the  signs  of  his  still  evident  emotion. 

Miss  Kenyon,  indeed,  made  so  sure  of  the  correct- 
ness of  her  inference  that  she  acted  upon  it  without 
further  consideration. 

Arthur  saw  her  then,  he  believed,  in  her  true 
character.  She  rose  and  came  towards  him  across 
the  room  with  an  effect  of  vindictive  triumph.    Her 


152   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

pale  blue  eyes  were  bright,  the  pupils  contracted 
almost  to  a  pin-point;  they  were  the  eyes  of  some 
fierce  bird  that  is  at  last  within  sight  of  the  kill. 

"Well?"  she  said  in  a  clear,  cold  voice,  "so  you've 
seen  my  father." 

Arthur  made  no  attempt  to  prevaricate.  "Yes, 
he  wants  to  see  Hubert,"  he  said,  and  looked  across 
the  room  at  his  cousin  as  he  added,  "I  understand 
that  he  won't  raise  any  objection."  He  saw,  as  he 
spoke,  the  lift  of  Hubert's  head  and  the  quick 
change  of  his  expression,  before  his  attention  was 
snatched  back  to  Miss  Kenyon. 

"And  you?"  she  asked  sharply. 

There  was  no  need  to  put  the  question  more 
plainly.     He  knew  they  all  knew  what  she  meant. 

"Your  father  has  asked  me  to  stay  on — in- 
definitely," he  said  quietly. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  she  instantly  veiled  her 
eyes,  lowering  her  glance  to  the  simple  brooch  she 
was  wearing  at  her  breast,  at  the  same  time  putting 
up  a  hand  as  if  to  adjust  it.  And  when  she  looked 
up  again  her  expression  betrayed  no  sign  of  anger 
or  resentment. 

He  was  disappointed.  He  had  expected,  even 
hoped,  for  some  indication  of  defeat  from  her. 
Vaguely  he  had  pictured  her  going  up  to  her  father 
to  enter  a  violent  protest.  This  apparently  meek 
submission  annoyed  him. 

"I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you,"  he  said  provo- 
catively. 

"I  have  forgotten  the  meaning  of  the  word  dis- 
appointment," she  returned  gravely,  looked  him 
full  in  the  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then  passed  on 
towards  the  door. 

Her  self-control  was  superb,  but  the  picture  that 
remained  in  Arthur's  mind  was  of  her  advance  to- 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    153 

wards  him  across  the  room.  For  one  instant  he 
had  been  afraid  of  her. 

"I  say!  is  it  all  right,  do  you  think ?"  Hubert 
eagerly  asked,  as  Arthur  joined  the  group  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room. 

"Perfectly  all  right,  old  chap — I  believe,"  Arthur 
replied.  "Hadn't  you  better  toddle  up  and  see  him 
at  once?" 

"But  what  did  you  tell  him?"  Hubert  persisted. 

"Everything  I  knew,"  Arthur  said.    "Cut  along." 

"I  suppose  you're  very  proud  of  yourself?" 
Elizabeth  put  in  demurely  as  her  brother  went  out. 

"I'm  very  glad  for  Hubert's  sake,"  was  Arthur's 
amendment. 

"Only  for  his  sake?"  Elizabeth  commented  care- 
lessly. 

Turner,  with  the  Times  on  his  knees,  was 
thoughtfully  twisting  his  neat  little  moustache. 
"So  you're  going  to  stay  on  indefinitely?"  he  re- 
marked. 

"Well,  yes;  that's  to  say  Mr  Kenyon  said  he 
would  like  me  to,"  Arthur  replied  rather  lamely. 
He  was  aware  of  a  sense  of  antagonism  between 
him  and  the  others.  None  of  them  so  far  had 
shown  the  least  inclination  to  thank  him  for  acting 
as  their  catspaw.  All  they  thought  about  appar- 
ently was  the  fact  that  he  was  going  to  remain  per- 
manently at  Hartling.  And  he  knew  that  the  time 
had  come  to  vindicate  his  motives,  to  express  that 
purpose  which  had  come  to  him  in  the  hall  when  he 
relinquished  the  idea  of  confronting  and,  if  possible, 
confounding  Eleanor. 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down,  with  an  air 
that  he  felt  claimed  his  right  to  be  included  in  the 
family  conclave. 

"I  wonder  if  you'll  let  me  say  something  to  you 


154   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

all  about  a  rather  delicate  matter?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing at  his  uncle. 

Joe  Kenyon  raised  himself  uneasily  in  his  chair 
and  glanced  round  the  faces  of  the  little  circle. 
They  were  all  alert  now.  There  could  be  no  ques- 
tion that  they  correctly  anticipated  the  nature  of  the 
"matter"  the  new-comer  was  going  to  discuss,  al- 
though they  were  uncertain  what  precisely  he  might 
have  to  say  about  it. 

"Yes,  Arthur,  yes.  Say  anything  you  like,"  Joe 
Kenyon  replied  rather  doubtfully.  "Now  we  know 
that  you've  come  to  stay  for  good,  of  course,  there's 
no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have — well — our  con- 
fidence." 

b  "I  don't  want  that,"  Arthur  said.  "I  want  to 
give  you  mine.  I  feel,  you  know,  in  a  confoundedly 
awkward  position,  and  I'd  like  to  clear  it  up  if  I 
could.  I  do  want  you  all  to  understand  more  par- 
ticularly that  I'm — that  I'm  not  'on  the  make' 
in  this  business." 

He  paused  a  moment,  but  no  one  made  any  com- 
ment— unless  Turner's  slight  nod  of  the  head  could 
be  regarded  as  an  invitation  for  him  to  continue. 

"I  feel,  you  see,  for  one  thing,"  Arthur  went  on, 
"that  I  am  in  a  sense  at  least  an  outsider,  not  one 
of  the  family  anyhow,  and  I  do  realise  too  that  the 
circumstances  are  pretty  well  unique.  So  what  I 
thought  of  proposing  was  that  I  should  make  some 
sort  of  undertaking — I'd  put  it  in  writing — that  if 
by  any  extraordinary  chance  I  should  be — be  speci- 
ally favoured  later,  if  you  know  what  I  mean,  I 
would  hand  most  of  anything  I  got,  back  to  the 
family.  I  should  think  we  could  get  some  sort 
of  binding  deed  drawn  up  to  that  effect,  couldn't 
we?" 

Not  until  he  stopped  speaking  did  Arthur  see 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    155 

how  terribly  he  had  embarrassed  them  by  thus 
naming  the  secret  thing  in  public.  Mrs  Turner  was 
fumbling  with  her  work;  her  husband  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  staring  up  at  the  ceiling;  and  Elizabeth, 
flushing  slightly,  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  win- 
dow. 

It  was  his  aunt  who  answered  him,  however,  in- 
directly. "Perhaps  we'd  better  go  into  another 
room,  Catherine,"  she  said,  addressing  her  sister- 
in-law.  "I've  never  been  able  to  understand  legal 
affairs,  and  this  proposal  of  Arthur's,  so  far  as  I 
understand  it,  seems  to  be  something  of  the  kind." 

Mrs  Turner  grabbed  her  work  and  got  up  with  a 
nod  of  agreement,  but  then  some  purpose  seemed 
to  stiffen  her.  She  hesitated,  nearly  dropped  the 
bead  bag  she  was  making,  and  said  in  a  scarcely 
audible  voice,  "But  we  do  appreciate  the  spirit  of 
it  all  the  same." 

"Oh,  rather!  of  course,"  her  brother  echoed 
her. 

Turner  returned  to  that  as  an  opening,  when  the 
three  men  were  left  alone  to  discuss  the  proposition 
that  had  been  vaguely  indicated.  "Very  decent  of 
you,  Woodroffe,"  he  said;  "and  you  put  the  thing 
quite  delicately  too;  but  you  understand,  don't  you, 
that  it  would  never  do  to  have  any  kind  of  formal 
agreement?" 

"I  don't.  I  should  prefer  it  to  be  as  formal  and 
binding  as  possible,"  Arthur  protested. 

Joe  Kenyon  shook  his  head.  "No,  no,  it  would 
never  do,"  he  said.  "You  see,  my  boy,  the  old  man 
might  think  we'd  been  influencing  you." 

"Good  Lord!  I'd  make  that  clear  enough  to 
him,"  Arthur  exclaimed. 

The  two  older  men  exchanged  a  smile  that  pitied 
his  innocence. 


156   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"You  don't  know  him,"  Turner  remarked  causti- 
cally. 

Arthur  was  a  trifle  disgusted.  He  was  still  warm 
with  gratitude  to  the  old  man  who  had  treated  him 
so  delightfully  that  morning,  and  he  resented  the 
bitter  note  of  aspersion  in  Turner's  voice. 

"He  has  been  most  frightfully  decent  to  me,"  he 
said  coldly. 

Joe  Kenyon  began  to  drum  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  "Well,  no  need  to  go  into  that,  eh, 
Charles?"  he  asked  nervously.  "The  point  is — • 
what  we've  got  to  make  clear  to  Arthur  comes  to 
this,  that  we're  quite  glad,  what!  to  trust  his  word 
without  any  damned  deeds  and  so  on?" 

"Oh,  quite!  quite!"  Turner  agreed. 

"But  you  know  .  .   ."  Arthur  began  to  protest. 

"My  dear  chap,"  Turner  interrupted  him,  "if  we 
can  trust  you  to  do  the  straight  thing  that's  surely 
all  that's  necessary.  Shake  hands  on  it,  if  you  like ; 
but  no  parchments,  for  the  Lord's  sake." 

"Very  good  of  you,"  Arthur  mumbled,  a  little 
overwhelmed  by  this  evidence  of  their  faith  in  him. 

"If  we  hadn't  trusted  you,  I  couldn't  have  said 
what  I  did  last  night,"  his  uncle  put  in.  "And  I 
for  one  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  interfering  in 
Hubert's  affair."  He  sighed  profoundly  as  he  con- 
cluded: "It  will  help  him  in  some  ways,  I  don't 
doubt." 

There  was  apparently  nothing  more  to  be  said, 
and  Arthur  was  on  his  feet  preparing  to  go  when 
Turner  remarked  casually  to  his  brother-in-law, 
"Totting  'em  up  pretty  fast  just  now,  isn't  he? 
That'll  make  three  more  of  us  if  poor  old  Ken  has 
to  come  in." 

Joe  Kenyon's  only  reply  was  to  draw  down  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  and  raise  his  eyebrows. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    157 

Arthur  did  not  want  to  hear  any  more.  He  was 
sorry  that  he  had  heard  so  much.  These  petty 
criticisms  of  old  Kenyon  made  him  despise  Turner 
and  his  uncle;  they  represented  another  aspect  of 
their  cowardice.  Damn  it,  the  old  man  was  worth 
the  lot  of  them,  if  you  excluded  Eleanor. 

He  supposed  that  she  would  hear  of  his  agree- 
ment with  the  family,  and  wondered  if  she  would 
apologise  to  him. 


IX 


IX 

ARTHUR  received  a  letter  from  Somers  by  the 
second  post.  It  was  still  raining,  and  he  was 
playing  billiards  with  Turner  when  the  letter  ar- 
rived, so  he  did  not  open  it  until  after  tea. 

Somers  had  written  in  a  mood  of  depression. 
Bates,  Arthur's  successor  at  the  Peckham  surgery, 
was  not  a  success.  "The  fool  means  well,  too  well," 
Somers  wrote;  "but  I  was  wrong  in  anticipating 
that  the  panel  patients  would  like  him.  They  don't. 
They  have  taken  his  measure,  and  all  his  good  in- 
tentions can't  disguise  the  fact  that  he  is  pudden- 
headed.  When  are  you  going  to  Canada?  If  you 
are  going?  Isn't  that  visit  of  yours  being  amaz- 
ingly protracted?  I  suppose  you're  lapped  in  luxury 
and  can't  tear  yourself  away.  Or  have  you  got  a 
permanent  job  there  as  tame  medico  to  the  old  man? 
Or  is  it  a  girl?  I  wish  to  God  you  would  write 
and  tell  me  in  any  case.  I  can't  keep  Bates  (he  has 
got  on  my  nerves)  and  I  should  like  to  know  for 
certain  if  there  is  the  least  hope  of  your  coming 
back.  I  can't  see  you  marrying  for  money,  and  if 
the  hypothecated  girl  is  the  right  sort,  she  would 
face  the  world  with  you  on  five  hundred  a  year. 
I  might  make  it  up  to  that.  The  private  practice 
is  better  than  it  was.  Sackville,  who  has  been  here 
so  long,  is  getting  too  old.  You  and  I  between  us 
would  get  pretty  nearly  all  the  new  people.  And 
if  my  first  guess  was  the  right  one  and  you've  got 
some  sort  of  sinecure  in  the  Harding  household,  the 

161 


1 62    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

sooner  you  chuck  it  the  better,  my  son.  For  one 
thing  you'll  get  soft,  and  for  another  you'll  get 
no  experience.  If  you  were  doing  hospital  work 
(which  you  ought  to  be),  I  should  not  try  to  tempt 
you  away,  but  if  you  are  just  letting  your  mind  rot, 
I  shall  think  it  is  my  duty  to  save  you  at  any  cost." 

As  he  read,  Arthur  lost  the  sense  of  his  sur- 
roundings. He  visualised  the  narrow  sitting-room 
of  the  little  Peckham  house,  and  heard  Somers's 
voice  telling  him  that  he  ought  to  be  doing  hospital 
work  or  getting  varied  experience  in  a  general  prac- 
tice; that  he  was  becoming  soft,  going  to  pieces  from 
a  professional  point  of  view.  He  blushed  like  a  stu- 
dent under  the  rebuke  of  the  demonstrator. 

Then  he  looked  up  and  the  illusion  vanished. 
He  saw  that  all  his  circumstances  were  now 
changed.  All  that  advice  would  be  sound  enough 
if  he  were  forced  to  return  to  such  a  general  prac- 
tice as  Peckham.  But  if  the  old  man  left  him,  say 
£10,000,  he  might  have  a  shot  for  his  Fellowship; 
try  for  a  registrarship  at  one  of  the  bigger  hospi- 
tals; perhaps  get  on  the  staff  of  one  and  set  up  in 
Wimpole  Street.  With  a  certain  amount  of  capital, 
this  would  be  so  much  easier,  and  the  war  had  given 
him  a  taste  for  minor  surgery.  Indeed,  it  had  al- 
ways appealed  to  him  more  than  medicine.  Mean- 
while, it  was  true  that  he  must  not  let  himself  get 
rusty.  He  ought  to  go  on  reading,  order  some 
books  from  town;  or  at  least  have  the  Lancet  sent  to 
him  every  Friday.  He  must  keep  himself  up  to 
date  while  he  was  waiting.  At  the  outside,  he  could 
not  have  to  wait  more  than  five  years.  He  would 
only  be  thirty-three  then.  .  .  . 

He  paused  doubtfully  on  that  thought,  but  just 
then  Hubert  came  in,  and  the  moment  of  uneasiness 
passed  and  was  forgotten.     It  had  stopped  raining 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    163 

and  Hubert  thought  that  they  might  put  in  nine 
holes  before  dinner. 

It  was  made  clear  on  the  way  up  to  the  links, 
however,  that  golf  was  not  Hubert's  goal  on  this 
occasion.  He  had  a  wild  hope  that  Miss  Martin 
might  be  found  at  the  Club  House.  He  had 
wanted,  naturally  enough,  to  tell  her  at  once  that 
the  engagement  was  to  be  permitted,  but  his  grand- 
father had  sent  him  up  to  the  farm  on  a  job  that 
had  kept  him  busy  all  the  afternoon. 

"Probably  did  it  just  to  tantalise  me  a  bit," 
Hubert  complained;  "teach  me  that  I  couldn't  have 
everything  my  own  way." 

"Oh,  surely  not!"  Arthur  protested.  He  was 
offended,  again,  by  this  imputation  of  unworthy 
motives  to  old  Mr  Kenyon.  "I  don't  believe  any 
of  you  understand  him,"  he  continued  warmly. 
"We  had  quite  a  long  talk  this  morning  and  he 
rather  came  out  of  his  shell.  He  may  seem  a  bit 
hard  and  inhuman  at  times,  you  know,  but  under- 
neath, I'm  certain  he's  trying  to  do  the  best  for 
everybody." 

Hubert  looked  faintly  surprised.  "Oh !  that  was 
the  way  he  took  you,  was  it?"  he  remarked. 

"There  you  go  again,"  Arthur  said.  "You,  all 
of  you,  seem  to  have  made  up  your  minds  that — 
that — I  don't  know " 

He  could  not  complete  his  sentence.  He  could 
see  that  they  all  feared  the  old  man,  but  they  never 
brought  any  explicit  charge  against  him  unless  it 
were  that  he  bullied  them  into  staying  on  at  Hart- 
ling.  And  all  that  had  been  explained.  Arthur, 
remembering  his  conversation  of  the  morning,  was 
strongly  inclined  now  to  take  the  old  man's  side. 
He  knew  their  weaknesses.  They  were  a  poor  lot 
obviously.     They  lacked  independence  of  spirit*;  if 


1 64  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

they  were  allowed  to  go  out  into  the  world  they 
would  come  awful  croppers  like  the  unfortunate, 
hot-headed  James,  Eleanor's  father.  The  old  man 
had  learnt  a  lesson  in  the  course  of  that  affair.  He 
was  a  bit  of  an  autocrat,  no  doubt;  but  he  had  good 
reason  to  be,  with  a  family  that  could  not  be  trusted. 

Hubert  appeared  either  unwilling  or  unable  to 
provide  a  definition  of  the  family's  attitude.  "Oh, 
well,"  he  said,  "no  good  discussing  that,  is  it? 
Here  we  are  and  we've  got  to  put  up  with  it.  And, 
personally,  you  know,  I  don't  care  much  now — 
partly  thanks  to  you,  old  man." 

Only  "partly,"  Arthur  reflected,  but  he  made  no 
comment  on  that.  "That's  all  right,  then,"  was  all 
he  said. 

Hubert  was  in  luck,  for  Miss  Martin  was  at  the 
Club  House,  drawn  thither,  no  doubt,  by  the  same 
hope  that  had  stimulated  her  lover,  and  although 
they  cheerfully  proposed  a  foursome,  Arthur  knew 
that  they  would  sooner  be  alone,  and  declined. 
The  proposed  fourth  player  in  the  case  was  Fer- 
gusson,  the  general  practitioner  from  the  village, 
to  whom  reference  had  been  made  when  the  post 
of  medical  attendant  had  been  first  offered  to  Ar- 
thur. He  and  Fergusson  had  met  once  or  twice  on 
the  links,  but  their  brief  conversations  had  so  far 
been  limited  to  golf.  The  doctor  was  a  man  of 
sixty  or  so,  with  thick  gray  hair  and  moustache  and 
a  strong,  clumsy  figure.  Arthur  had  formed  the 
opinion  that  he  was  rather  a  surly  fellow. 

"Care  to  take  me  on  for  nine  holes — haven't 
time  for  more?"  Arthur  asked  him. 

Fergusson  nodded.  "Not  that  I'm  particularly 
anxious  to  play,"  he  said.  "The  ground  will  be 
very  wet,  I'm  thinking,  after  all  the  rain  we've  had 
to-day.    I  just  looked  in  on  my  way  home,  without 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    165 

much  idea  of  getting  a  game.  Indeed,  to  be  honest, 
I've  had  a  very  long  day  and  am  not  so  anxious  to 
exert  myself." 

"Scattered  sort  of  practice,  I  expect,"  Arthur 
commented.     "Have  a  cigar." 

Fergusson  accepted  the  cigar  with  a  nod  of 
thanks.  "One  of  your  perquisites?"  he  asked,  smil- 
ing rather  grimly. 

Arthur  stiffened.  "Never  thought  of  it  like 
that,"  he  said.  "They're  all  over  the  shop  up 
there.    You  just  take  'em  as  you  want  'em." 

"No  need  to  get  ruffled,"  Fergusson  replied 
quietly.  "I  know.  I  used  to  be  up  there  once  a 
week  or  so  before  you  came.    Nice  little  sinecure." 

"But  I  say,  look  here,"  Arthur  said,  suddenly 
conscious  for  the  first  time  that  he  might  have  been 
guilty  of  a  breach  of  medical  etiquette,  "you  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  that  I've  taken  away  one  of  your 
cases?" 

Fergusson  laughed  dryly.  "Well,  you  have  and 
you  haven't,"  he  said.  "But  your  conscience  is 
no  doubt  clear  enough  and  everything  was  done  in 
proper  form.  The  old  man  wrote  to  me  and 
explained,  and  I  went  up  and  talked  it  all  over  with 
him.  You  were  playing  golf  on  that  occasion,  I'm 
thinking.    However,  it'll  be  a  soft  job  for  you." 

Arthur  still  looked  uneasy.  "I  never  once 
thought  about  you  in  that  connection,  you  know,"  he 
said.  "I  ought,  anyhow,  to  have  come  and  seen 
you." 

"Oh,  no  need  to  fash  yourself,"  Fergusson  re- 
turned. "Mr  Kenyon  was  very  considerate  about 
the  affair.     I'm  not  complaining." 

"Yes,  he  is  very  considerate,"  Arthur  agreed, 
automatically.  Had  Fergusson  been  promised  a 
place  in  that  untidy  will  as  compensation?  was  the 


1 66   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

thought  that  flashed  across  his  mind,  a  thought 
that  was  in  some  indefinable  way  unpleasant.  He 
did  not  grudge  the  doctor  his  possible  legacy,  he 
sincerely  hoped  that  it  might  be  a  big  one,  but  he 
had  a  feeling  of  vague  distaste  for  the  principle 
involved.  Why  should  the  old  man  trade  on  these 
rather  equivocal  promises  of  future  reward?  He 
had  given  convincing  reasons  with  regard  to  his 
own  family,  but  they  did  not  apply  to  Fergusson, 
nor  to  Scurr,  the  chauffeur,  and  the  other  servants. 
Arthur  decided  to  try  a  "feeler." 

"But  hang  it,"  he  said,  "I've  done  you  out  of  a 
certain  amount  of  income.  All  the  consideration 
in  the  world  doesn't  make  up  for  that." 

Fergusson,  looking  slightly  self-conscious,  studied 
the  ash  of  his  cigar.  "He's  a  queer  old  customer 
in  some  respects,"  he  remarked  illusively. 

Arthur  chose  to  overlook  that  comment  "I 
think  you  ought  to  know,"  he  said,  "that  I'm  not 
being  paid  any  salary  for  my  job.  There's  my  keep, 
of  course,  but  in  a  house  like  that  one  person  more 
or  less  can't  make  any  difference." 

"Eh!  Is  that  so?"  Fergusson  said.  "And  are 
you  staying  on  indefinitely?" 

"Well  .  .  ."  Arthur  explained,  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand. 

"I  take  you,"  Fergusson  acknowledged.  "I  was 
on  much  the  same  terms.  And  how  d'you  think  the 
old  man's  looking?  I've  known  him  for  twenty- 
five  years,  and  he  has  hardly  changed  a  hairsbreadth 
in  that  time.  He'll  be  ninety-two  this  year,  I'm 
told;  but  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  to  learn  that  he 
was  seventy  or  a  hundred  and  ten.  Indeed,  it's 
come  to  me  lately  that  I'd  have  been  better  advised 
to  have  sent  him  in  a  whacking  account  when  he 
turned  me  off,  for  it's  likely  enough  that  he'll  outlive 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    167 

me.  However,  you  stand  a  better  chance  than  I  do, 
for  I  presume  you  can  give  me  thirty  years." 

Arthur  shivered  slightly.  His  suspicion  had  been 
fully  confirmed,  and  the  thought  of  it  troubled  him. 
Still,  from  one  point  of  view,  it  was  reasonable 
enough  that  Mr  Kenyon  should  have  this  particular 
eccentricity.  All  his  life  he  had  been  wrestling  with 
a  family  that  could  not  be  trusted  with  money,  and 
the  habit  had  possibly  grown  into  an  obsession.  He 
looked  at  Fergusson,  who  was  somewhat  grimly 
enjoying  his  cigar.  He  had  all  the  appearance  of 
an  honest  man.  "Known  him  twenty-five  years, 
have  you?"  he  commented. 

"Ay!"  Fergusson  said.  "I  came  to  this  damned 
place  when  I  was  thirty-seven,  and  I  thought  I  was 
in  luck  to  get  hold  of  a  rich  patient  like  Kenyon. 
Well,  as  you  can  judge  from  what  I  told  you,  he 
looked  an  oldish  man  then.  Not  so  withered  nat- 
urally, but  if  he  was  only  sixty-six  at  that  time  I 
should  say  that  he  looked  more  than  his  age.  But 
there  you  are.  I  knew  an  old  chap  of  the  name  of 
Simon — he  has  been  dead  God  knows  how  long — 
who  was  a  contemporary  of  Kenyon's,  used  to  do 
business  with  him  in  the  'sixties,  and  he  has  told 
me  that  Kenyon  was  always  a  dry  stick — one  of 
those  men  who  look  old  at  forty  and  never  change 
afterwards. 

"And  there's  another  queer  thing  he  told  me," 
Fergusson  went  on,  after  a  slight  pause,  "a  thing 
you'll  be  disinclined  to  credit,  which  is,  that  Kenyon 
was  never  a  good  business  man — not  really  able  or 
far-sighted,  that  is." 

"But  he  made  a  pile  of  money,"  Arthur  put  in. 

"He  did,"  Fergusson  said,  "but  Simon  used  to  say 
that  he  got  it  by  sheer  luck;  that  he  never  touched 
an  investment  that  didn't  go  right  by  some  fluke 


1 68    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

or  another,  though  by  all  the  laws  of  probability, 
it  ought  to  have  gone  just  the  other  way.  Maybe 
Simon  was  a  bit  jealous,  but  he  had  a  mighty  poor 
opinion  of  Kenyon  as  a  business  man — though 
begob,  I'm  inclined  to  differ  from  him,  myself. " 

"He  has  been  most  frightfully  decent  to  me," 
Arthur  commented  uneasily;  and  remembered  that 
he  had  made  the  same  remark  to  Turner  a  few 
hours  earlier. 

"Ay,  he  would  be  that,"  Fergusson  said.  "There 
have  been  times  when  I  have  liked  him  very  well 
myself;  but  I  always  had  the  feeling  that  there  was 
something  queer  about  him — a  trifle  uncanny,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

"Oh,  well!  Perhaps.  I  don't  know,"  Arthur 
said.  "He  seems  sometimes  to  be  extraordinarily 
detached;  as  if  he  were  living  a  sort  of  life  of  his 
own." 

"Hm!  Likely  enough,"  Fergusson  agreed. 
"Simon  told  me  that  Kenyon  had  a  hell  of  a  time 
when  he  was  a  young  man.  His  father,  who  was 
in  the  business  before  him,  was  one  of  your  old- 
fashioned  bullies.  Used  to  treat  his  son  like  a  dog, 
Simon  said.  So  no  doubt  Kenyon  got  the  habit  of 
keeping  things  to  himself  then,  and  it  stuck  to  him 
after  his  father  was  dead." 

"Yes,  that  might  account  for  it,  in  a  way," 
Arthur  admitted. 

Arthur's  thoughts  went  back  to  that  conversation 
as  he  dressed  for  dinner.  He  was  inclined  to  trust 
Fergusson.  Fergusson  had  been  very  decent  about 
his  supersession  at  Harding,  and  it  did  not  seem 
likely  that  his  rather  disparaging  attitude  had  been 
designed  to  frighten  his  rival  out  of  the  field.  In- 
deed, a  few  weeks  ago  such  a  suspicion  would  not 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   169 

have  crossed  Arthur's  mind;  but  there  was  some 
influence  in  the  air  of  Hartling  that  bred  suspicions 
of  that  kind,  and  he  put  them  from  him  now  with 
a  just  perceptible  sense  of  self-approval. 

The  trouble  that  still  faced  him  was  that  even 
when  he  had  deliberately  cleared  his  mind  of  any 
doubts  concerning  the  good-faith  of  all  the  many 
potential  legatees,  he  was  thrust  back  upon  a  doubt 
of  the  man  who  appeared  in  the  role  of  his  bene- 
factor. A  few  hours  ago  he  had  whole-heartedly 
advised  and  trusted  him.  When  he  had  come  away 
from  his  interview  that  morning,  he  had  definitely 
ranged  himself  on  the  old  man's  side,  had,  as  he 
believed,  learnt  at  last  to  understand  and  approve 
the  old  man's  motives. 

But  then,  as  always,  he  had  been  induced  by 
various  influences  to  doubt  again.  It  seemed  so 
impossible  in  this  place  to  arrive  at  any  certainty. 
No  theory  he  had  been  able  to  formulate  accounted 
for  all  the  facts,  not  even  the  far-reaching,  comfort- 
able theory  that  there  was  a  certain  amount  of 
right — and  wrong — on  both  sides.  There  appeared 
to  be  some  secret,  some  key  to  the  whole  situation, 
that  was  as  yet  beyond  his  reach. 

Could  Eleanor  put  it  in  his  hands?  His  thought 
turned  towards  her  with  a  leap  of  hopeful  anticipa- 
tion. She  had  given  him  no  sign  so  far  that  she  had 
repented  her  manifest  disapproval  of  him  that 
morning.  She,  too,  perhaps,  was  being  continually 
swayed  by  the  uncertainties  bred  of  the  Hartling 
condition.  But  it  might  be  that  she  had  not  yet 
heard  of  the  unsigned  agreement  that  he  had  made 
in  imitation  of  her  own  method?  In  any  case,  he 
had  an  excuse  for  asking  her  to  have  a  little  quiet 
talk  with  him.  She  owed  him  an  explanation.  He 
could  even  demand  it.  .  .  . 


170   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

He  might  be  able  to  judge  by  her  expression  at 
dinner  whether  she  had  changed  her  opinion  of  his 
motives  since  the  morning,  and  if  he  found  the  least 
evidence  of  her  softening  towards  him,  he  would 
ask  her  to  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say;  to  the 
reasons  that  had  decided  him  to  stay  on  at  Harding 
until  her  grandfather  died. 

But  he  received  no  sign  from  Eleanor  in  the 
course  of  dinner.  She  would  not  look  at  him. 
Though  he  persistently  stared  at  her,  trying  to 
attract  her  attention,  she  managed  to  avoid  his 
glance  with  a  steadiness  which  could  not  have  been 
accidental.  She  talked  more  than  usual  both  to 
Hubert  and  his  father  who  sat  on  her  other  side, 
but  so  far  as  he  was  able  to  overhear  her  conver- 
sation, the  subject  of  it  had  no  relation  to  his  own 
plans  or  doings.  Most  of  her  talk  seemed  to  be  con- 
cerned with  Hubert's  fiancee,  Dorothy  Martin. 

And  Arthur's  own  attention  was  continually  being 
distracted  by  Elizabeth.  Never  before  had  she 
been  so  ready  to  flirt  with  him. 

It  seemed  that  she  had  dressed  for  the  part.  She 
was  wearing  a  gown  that  he  had  not  seen  before, 
and  that  was  something  too  elaborate  for  a  family 
dinner.  Her  plump,  well-developed  bust  and  shoul- 
ders emerging  with  an  effect  of  challenge  from  a 
foam  of  pink  chiffon,  looked  almost  startlingly 
naked.  Nevertheless,  if  it  were  a  trifle  theatrical, 
the  dress  suited  her  brunette  prettiness,  and  gave 
value  to  the  air  of  vivacity  that  she  had,  also,  as- 
sumed. This  was  one  of  Elizabeth's  most  effective 
moods.  He  had  seen  her  pert  and  rather  forward 
on  other  occasions  but  never  quite  so  daring  as  she 
was  to-night. 

Yet  he  lacked  the  least  inclination  to  flirt  with 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   171 

her.  He  recognised  her  feminine  attractions,  but 
they  failed  to  arouse  him.  Indeed,  when  he  com- 
pared her  with  her  cousin,  dressed  as  usual  in  a  soft, 
simple  white  frock,  he  found  Elizabeth's  forward- 
ness vulgar,  almost  to  him  in  his  present  mood 
repulsive.  He  responded  to  the  best  of  his  ability, 
he  had  no  wish  to  snub  her,  but  he  felt  that  she 
must  be  distressingly  conscious  of  her  failure  to 
strike  fire  from  him. 

Miss  Kenyon  on  his  other  side  gave  no  indication 
of  cherishing  any  ill-will  against  him  for  having 
defeated  her  that  morning.  He  and  she  rarely 
talked  to  each  other  at  the  dinner  table.  They 
had  nothing  to  say.  And  to-night  her  manner 
discovered  no  shade  of  difference  from  her  habitual 
attitude  towards  him. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  Miss  Kenyon  who,  whether 
deliberately  or  not,  thwarted  him  as  they  were 
leaving  the  table.  She  addressed  some  unnecessary 
remark  to  him  as  they  were  getting  up,  and  thus 
gave  Eleanor  time  to  leave  the  room  in  front  of 
them.  When  he  was  able  to  escape  and  follow  her 
into  the  hall,  she  was  half-way  up  the  stairs. 

He  paused  in  the  hall,  staring  after  her,  and  when 
she  reached  the  second  landing  he  caught  her  eye 
for  an  instant  looking  down  at  him.  But  she  turned 
away  again  at  once,  and  he  had  not  the  courage 
either  to  attempt  to  address  her  from  that  distance, 
or  to  follow  her  upstairs. 

He  avoided  Elizabeth  when  he  went  into  the 
drawing-room  and  almost  immediately  haled  Turner 
out  into  the  billiard-room.  Elizabeth  did  not  follow 
them.  No  doubt  she  believed  that  her  attractions 
had  no  power  over  him  in  his  present  mood. 
Arthur  himself  would  have  declared  that  they  had 
not  at  that  moment,  and  yet  little  more  than  an 


172   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

hour  later  he  was  seriously  debating  whether  he 
would  or  would  not  propose  to  her. 

Billiards  was  a  failure  so  far  as  he  was  concerned 
that  evening.  He  could  not  get  a  shot  himself  and 
Turner's  slick  facility  began  to  irritate  him.  He 
had  to  keep  himself  firmly  in  hand  in  order  to  hide 
his  annoyance.  And  as  the  game  went  on  his  spirits 
sank  lower  and  lower  into  a  mood  of  profound 
depression. 

"You're  off  your  game  to-night,"  Turner  com- 
mented jauntily,  when  Arthur  rather  impatiently 
refused  to  play  again.     "Anything  the  matter?" 

They  were  alone  in  the  billiard-room — Hubert 
had  not  joined  them  to-night  as  usual — and  Turner 
suddenly  dropped  into  a  mood  of  confidence. 

"Feel  a  bit  doubtful  about  settling  down  here?" 
he  went  on.  "You  needn't.  We've  all  passed 
through  that  stage,  but  you  soon  become  reconciled; 
why  shouldn't  you?  Get  everything  you  can  pos- 
sibly want  here  except  a  certain  measure  of  free- 
dom, and  no  one's  really  free.  It's  one  sort  of 
slavery  or  another  for  every  one  of  us.  If  I  were 
you,  my  boy,  I'd  marry  Elizabeth  and  make  up  my 
mind  to  it.  Then  you  won't  be  continually  on 
tenterhooks  as  to  whether  the  old  man's  going  to 
last  one  year  more  or  ten." 

"Oh!  Good  Lord!"  Arthur  gesticulated.  "It 
isn't  that.  I'm  a  bit  out  of  sorts,  that's  all,  touch 
of  indigestion,  I  expect.  No  need  to  resort  to 
desperate  remedies  for  that." 

Turner  smiled.  "I  won't  tell  Elizabeth,"  he 
commented  dryly.  "And  if  you  take  my  advice 
you'll  think  it  over.  Coming  back  into  the  other 
room?" 

"No,  I've  got  a  letter  to  write,"  Arthur  said, 
remembering  that  Somers  would  expect  an  answer 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   173 

to  his  main  question.  "I'll  go  upstairs,  I  think, 
good-night." 

He  had  wanted,  savagely,  to  get  away  from 
Turner  just  then,  but  when  he  was  upstairs  in  his 
bedroom  he  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  loneliness. 
There  was  not  a  single  human  being  in  that  house 
in  whom  he  could  confide.  He  had,  for  instance,  to 
write  to  Somers;  he  had  to  say  that  there  was  no 
chance  of  his  returning  to  Peckham,  and  although 
he  had  given  his  promise  and  had  really  no  option, 
he  would  have  liked  to  talk  it  over  with  some  one 
before  making  an  irrevocable  decision.  Had  not 
Turner  been  right  after  all?  If  Elizabeth  was 
willing  to  marry  him,  would  not  her  companionship 
alleviate  the  occasional  tediousness  and  loneliness 
of  life  at  Hartling?  If  they  were  married  they 
might  become  friends.  It  was  impossible  to  be  on 
terms  of  real  confidence  with  a  girl  of  that  sort 
until  you  were  married  to  her.  She  was  always 
too  conscious  of  her  sex  and  doubtful  about  your 
intentions. 

Now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it,  she  had  certainly 
looked  very  tempting  in  that  pink  frock.  She  was 
one  of  the  prettiest  girls  he  had  ever  known — 
though  she  might  run  to  flesh  in  a  few  years'  time. 

He  got  up  from  the  table  at  which  he  had  been 
sitting  before  a  still  virgin  sheet  of  Hartling  note- 
paper,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 
How  familiar,  even  commonplace,  that  room  had 
become  to  him,  he  reflected.  A  few  weeks  ago  it 
had  been  a  delicious  enticement,  a  thing  ardently 
desired.  But  he  would  have  missed  it  horribly 
if  he  had  had  to  go  back  to  Peckham.  Would  his 
marriage  with  Elizabeth  produce  a  like  develop- 
ment of  sensation,  beginning  with  enticements  and 
ardent  luxuries  that  would  gradually  become  fa- 


174   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

miliar,  a  matter  of  habit?  He  was  not  in  love  with 
her,  but  he  might  be  when  he  knew  her  better. 
At  present  he  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  her 
inner  life.  They  had  never  talked  about  anything 
but  games  for  more  than  a  minute  at  a  time.  .  .  . 

One  thing  was  certain,  he  must  write  that  letter 
and  announce  his  decision.  No  other  had  been 
possible.  Apart  from  his  promise  to  Mr  Kenyon, 
no  sane  man  would  hesitate  a  moment  between  the 
alternatives  of  Hartling  and  Peckham.  He  would 
ask  Somers  to  recommend  him  some  modern  works 
on  surgery.  He  would  not  allow  himself  to  rust, 
although  it  was  the  practical  experience  that  was 
most  useful.  Still,  he  would  get  that  in  hospital — 
later.  No  one  could  say  how  long  he  would  have  to 
wait,  but  Fergusson  had  been  talking  through  his 
hat  when  he  had  said  that  the  old  man  would 
probably  outlive  him.  Fergusson  was  good  for  at 
least  another  ten  or  fifteen  years,  probably  more; 
and  people  did  not  live  to  over  a  hundred.  Give 
the  old  man  five  years  at  the  outside.  He  would 
probably  collapse  quite  suddenly  at  the  end. 

But  suppose,  just  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that 
the  old  man  left  him,  Arthur,  nothing  after  all? 
No!  he  would  not  consider  that.  It  was  disloyal. 
He  had  had  what  amounted  to  a  promise  from  him, 
and  in  common  justice  some  compensation  would 
have  to  be  made  for  taking  the  best  years  of  his 
life.  The  very  fact  that  he  was  getting  no  salary 
was  a  guarantee — an  absolute  guarantee.  Old 
Kenyon  might  have  various  eccentricities,  they  were 
only,  to  be  expected  at  his  age,  but  he  was  a  good 
sort,  and  if  anything  a  shade  too  impartial  in  his 
administration  of  justice. 

And  then,  what  about  the  idea  of  marrying 
Elizabeth  if  she  would  have  him?    He  walked  over 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    175 

to  the  window  and  leaned  out.  It  was  raining  again, 
a  light,  steady  rain.  It  looked  as  if  they  might  be 
in  for  a  lot  of  rain.  Getting  engaged  to  and  marry- 
ing Elizabeth  would  be  something  to  do,  an  excite- 
ment that  would  be  a  pleasant  change  from  golf, 
billiards,  croquet,  and  tennis.  Should  he  go  down 
now  and  try  his  luck?  She  had  looked  rather 
ripping  in  that  pink  frock.  He  would  be  able  to 
put  more  ardour  into  his  proposal  when  she  was 
dressed  like  that.  And,  unless  she  had  changed 
since  dinner,  she  was  in  just  the  right  mood. 

Still  leaning  out  of  the  window,  he  began  to 
picture  the  proposal.  He  saw  himself  alone  with 
Elizabeth  somewhere — he  might  make  some  excuse 
to  take  her  into  the  library — and  then,  beginning 
to  overcome  her  levity  and  caprice  by  his  earnest- 
ness— he  would  say  that  he  had  been  in. love  with 
her  from  the  first,  but  that  he  had  been  afraid  to 
tell  her — no  prospects — that  sort  of  thing.  He 
imagined  her  becoming  suddenly  serious,  recipro- 
cating his  seriousness,  confessing  that  she,  too,  had 
always — liked  him.  They  would  be  quite  close 
together  when  she  admitted  that,  and  he  would 
put  his  arms  round  her  waist  or  over  her  shoulders 
— she  had  lovely  shoulders — and  kiss  her.  .  .  . 

He  came  back  into  the  room  at  that  point  of  his 
dream  and  began  to  walk  impatiently  up  and  down. 
It  was  very  queer,  he  couldn't  in  any  way  account 
for  it;  but  he  did  not  in  the  least  want  to  kiss 
Elizabeth.  He  had  just  done  the  thing  in  imagina- 
tion, very  vividly  and  realistically,  and  it  had  not 
stirred  him  in  the  least  degree.  On  the  contrary, 
it  had  produced  a  sense  of  being  mean  and  con- 
temptible. He  had  often  kissed  girls  in  the  past, 
and  had  always  liked  doing  it.  Did  he  feel  like 
that  now  because  Elizabeth  was  in  a  different  class 


176    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

of  life,  or  because  that  kiss  would  be  the  seal  of  his 
engagement  to  her?  He  conjured  up  the  image  of 
her  as  he  had  seen  her  that  night  at  dinner,  held  it 
before  him  and  studied  it.  No,  the  whole  truth  of 
the  matter  was  that  he  did  not  want  to  kiss  her, 
and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  She  was  not,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  his  sort. 

He  would  now  write  his  letter  to  Somers,  and 
then  go  to  bed. 

To-morrow  he  might  make  an  opportunity  to 
have  that  talk  with  Eleanor.  He  would  like  her 
to  understand  his  reasons  for  staying  on  at  Harding. 
She  ought  to  know  that,  as  he  had  just  written  to 
Somers,  he  meant  to  go  in  for  a  serious  course  of 
study.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  conjure  up  the  image  of  Eleanor 
at  will,  for  some  reason,  but  sometimes  it  came 
unexpectedly  with  amazing  vividness  when  he  was 
not  thinking  of  her — some  such  picture  of  her  as 
her  swift  glance  down  at  him  in  the  hall  when  she 
had  been  going  upstairs  that  evening. 


THE  arrangements  for  breakfast  at  Harding 
were  in  keeping  with  Arthur's  early  estimate 
of  the  place  as  a  first-class  hotel.  The  members 
of  the  family  came  down  when  they  chose,  and 
between  eight  and  ten  o'clock  there  were  rarely 
more  than  two  people  in  the  breakfast-room  at  the 
same  time.  Miss  Kenyon  and  Hubert  came  first. 
Hubert  had  a  habit  of  getting  up  at  six  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  Miss  Kenyon  was  a  precisian.  Arthur 
succeeded  them  between  half-past  eight  and  nine  and 
sometimes  had  his  aunt  for  a  companion.  The  other 
four  straggled  in  uncertainly — Joe  Kenyon  or  his 
sister  was  always  the  last — and  occasionally  their 
meals  overlapped.  So  much  Arthur  knew  from  ex- 
perience, and  as  he  had  never  seen  Eleanor  in  the 
morning,  he  had  inferred  that  she  probably  break- 
fasted with  her  grandfather  upstairs. 

He  was  greatly  surprised,  therefore,  to  find  her 
at  the  table  when  he  entered  the  room  at  half-past 
eight  the  next  morning,  surprised  and  for  a  minute 
or  two  distinctly  embarrassed.  He  was  never  now 
in  the  mood  for  conversation  so  early  in  the  day. 

Until  he  had  come  to  Hartling  he  had  always 
been  fresh  and  eager  in  the  morning,  but  the 
Kenyons  were  taciturn  and  inclined  to  be  irritable 
at  that  time,  and  by  degrees  their  example  had 
influenced  him.  He  presumed  that  it  was  their 
example,  but  he  was  not  sure  whether  or  not  he 
could  attribute  to  the  same  source  the  sense  of 
dissatisfaction  with  himself  that  commonly  haunted 

179 


180    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

him  now  when  he  first  woke;  dissatisfaction  and  a 
strange  feeling  of  staleness  and  of  disinclination  to 
begin  his  easy,  amusing  day. 

He  addressed  her  as  he  might  have  addressed  a 
casual  acquaintance  in  a  hotel. 

"Don't  often  see  you  down  here  in  the  morning," 
he  remarked  vapidly,  as  he  rang  the  bell. 

"I've  been  given  a  holiday  to-day,"  she  said, 
without  looking  up.  "And  I  was  to  tell  you  that 
you  needn't  go  up  this  morning.  My  grandfather 
says  he's  feeling  a  little  tired." 

"He  had  rather  an  exciting  day,"  Arthur  agreed; 
investigated  the  cold  dishes  on  the  sideboard,  and 
then  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  opposite  her. 

Eleanor  went  on  quietly  with  her  breakfast.  She 
seemed  prepared,  he  thought,  to  sit  there  in  silence 
for  the  rest  of  the  meal,  while  he  on  his  part  could 
think  of  no  reasonably  intelligent  conversation. 
After  the  interval  provided  by  the  entrance  of  the 
butler,  however,  an  opening  presented  itself  to  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  holiday?" 
he  asked.  "It'll  be  rather  too  wet  for  tennis, 
won't  it?" 

"I'm  going  for  a  long  walk  into  Sussex,"  she  said. 

His  first  thought  was  that  he  would  now  find  no 
opportunity  for  a  quiet  talk  alone  with  her  that  day. 

"All  alone?"  he  asked. 

"I  long  to  be  alone,  sometimes,"  she  murmured. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  spend  most  of  your 
time  alone,"  he  said.  "We  don't  see  much  of  you." 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  an  expression  that 
seemed  to  indicate  both  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment. "One  can  never  be  alone  in  the  house,"  she 
said. 

He  did  not  understand.  "Are  you  always  with 
your  grandfather?"  he  asked. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   181 

She  shook  her  head  and  looked  down  again  at  her 
plate,  as  she  said,  "I  meant  that  I  couldn't  think 
my  own  thoughts  here." 

"And  what  do  you  think  about  when  you're  out 
all  by  yourself  in  Sussex?"  he  inquired.  He  felt 
that  his  tone  was  not  right,  that  it  held  a  suggestion 
of  the  jocular;  but  he  felt  shy  and  ill  at  ease,  afraid 
of  being  too  serious. 

"Just  my  own  thoughts,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  wanted  to  say  something  rather  profound  to 
show  that  he  understood  and  sympathised,  but  every 
sentence  he  tried  over  in  his  mind  appeared  trivial 
and  banal.  He  kept  his  head  down  as  he  muttered 
finally.  "I've  often  wondered  what  you  think  about 
things." 

She  made  no  reply  to  that,  and  he  was  afraid  to 
look  at  her.  His  speech  had  sounded  rather  surly, 
he  thought,  and  with  the  idea  of  amending  it,  he 
continued,  "I  mean  that  every  one  seems  to  take 
things  for  granted  here,  except  you." 

"What  sort  of  things?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  well!  speculations  about  life  in  general," 
he  tried. 

"Yes,  I  don't  think  any  of  us  are  much  given  to 
that  sort  of  thing,"  she  replied. 

There  had  been  some  effect  of  a  smile  in  her  tone 
as  she  spoke,  and  he  looked  up  and  saw  that  she 
was  indeed  smiling,  if  a  trifle  ruefully. 

"Not  even  you?"  he  asked. 

She  disregarded  the  implied  flattery  that  distin- 
guished her  from  all  the  other  members  of  the 
family.  "Have  you  done  much  speculating  about  life 
in  general  since  you've  been  here?"   she  returned. 

He  had  hardly  begun  his  breakfast  yet,  but  he 
laid  his  napkin  on  the  table  and  pushed  back  his 
chair.     "I  wish  you  would  let  me  come  with  you 


182    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

to-day,"  he  said.  "There  are  a  heap  of  things  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  know  you  don't  like 
me,  but  it  would  be  a  real  kindness  if  you  would 
let  me  talk  to  you  a  little  sometimes.  There's 
simply  no  one  here  I  can  explain  things  to." 

"Why  me?"  she  replied. 

"You're  so  different  from  all  the  others,"  he  said. 

"And  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"Different  from  the  others?"  he  repeated,  stag- 
gered by  the  suggestion  that  he  could  be  thought  to 
resemble,  in  any  particular,  the  other  members  of 
the  Hartling  circle. 

"Yes,"  she  prompted  him  quietly. 

He  stared  at  her  frowning.  "Am  I  the  least  like 
them?"  he  inquired  with  a  faint  trepidation  in  his 
voice. 

"Not  yet,  perhaps;  but  you  will  be,"  she  said. 

"But  they  aren't  like  each  other,"  he  remon- 
strated. "Which  of  them  shall  I  be  like  if  I  stay 
long  enough,  Uncle  Joe,  or  Mr  Turner,  or  Hu- 
bert .  .  .    ?" 

"Aren't  they  all  rather  alike  in  one  way?"  she 
asked. 

He  saw  at  once  that  they  were;  that  there  was 
some  characteristic  common  to  every  one  of  them, 
even  Miss  Kenyon.  Seen  as  individuals  they  were 
as  different  from  each  other  as  are  the  ears  of 
wheat  in  a  cornfield,  but  they  all  bowed  the  same 
way  to  the  prevailing  wind.  In  their  attitude  to- 
wards the  head  of  the  house  they  could  all  be  re- 
lied upon  to  present  the  same  face. 

"But  you've  been  here  fourteen  years,"  he  said, 
"and  you're  still  different.  Or  do  you  think  it  takes 
longer  than  that  to  get  assimilated?" 

"I'm  not  different,"  she  replied.  "Or  I  shouldn't 
be  here  still." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    183 

"Of  course,  I  don't  know  you,"  he  said.  "I've 
hardly  seen  you  since  the  first  three  or  four  days 
I  was  here.  But — well — I  can't  agree  with  you 
about  that." 

She  just  perceptibly  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  haven't  said  whether  you  will  let  me  come 
with  you  on  your  walk,"  he  began  again,  after  a 
short  pause. 

"I  would  sooner  you  didn't,"  she  told  him.  "It 
can't  do  any  good.  There  can  be  nothing  new  that 
you  want  to  ask  my  advice  about.  I  said  all  I  had 
to  say  to  you  about  that  five  weeks  ago,  and  you 
took  no  notice.  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  said 
then." 

"But  I  can't  go  now,"  he  protested.  "I've  given 
my  promise.    I  made  a  sort  of  bargain  in  fact." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently.  "You  needn't 
keep  it,"  she  said. 

"That's  absurd,"  he  remonstrated,  getting  to  his 
feet.  "Of  course  I  must  keep  my  promise  in  any 
circumstances." 

"I  suppose  you  do  really  believe  that?"  she  asked, 
looking  up  at  him.  "Would  you  keep  it  just  the 
same,  for  instance,  if  you  knew  for  certain  that  it 
meant  staying  on  here  for  ten  years  and  getting 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  at  the  end  of  it?  Would 
you,  honestly?  Or  don't  you  think  you'd  ask  to 
be  let  off?" 

"I  might  ask  to  be  let  off,"  he  admitted,  after  a 
few  seconds'  thought. 

"Then  you'll  only  be  keeping  your  promise  or 
bargain  or  whatever  it  is  because  you  want  to  stay 
— or  because  you've  got  to,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps,"  he  agreed.  "But  I've  never  said  that 
I  didrit  want  to  stay.     I  do." 

She  sighed.    "Precisely,  and  now  we're  back  again 


1 84   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

to  what  I  said  just  now.  Whatever  is  the  good  of 
talking  to  me  about  it?" 

"We  might  talk  about  other  things,"  he  suggested. 
"I  should  very  much  like  to  get  away,  too,  for  a 
few  hours." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  leaning  her  elbows 
on  the  table,  and  he  waited  patiently  for  her  answer. 

"Why  don't  you  finish  your  breakfast?"  she 
asked,  when  she  looked  up  after  what  seemed  to 
him  a  long  interval  of  silence. 

"I  have.     I  don't  want  anything  more,"  he  said. 

She  got  up  then,  and  he  thought  she  was  going 
to  leave  him  without  deigning  to  take  any  further 
notice  of  his  request,  but  when  she  was  half-way 
across  the  room,  she  looked  back  and  said,  "Can  you 
be  ready  in  ten  minutes?" 

He  started  forward  with  the  eagerness  of  a  dog 
beckoned  by  its  mistress.  "Do  you  really  mean 
that?"  he  asked,  hardly  understanding  his  own 
excitement. 

She  stood  still  regarding  him  with  an  expression 
that  was  half-amused  and  half-disdainful.  "I  didn't 
know  you  were  so  keen  on  long  walks,"  she  re- 
marked, "or  on  getting  away  from  here.  Isn't  this 
rather  a  new  departure  for  you?" 

The  look  of  eagerness  left  his  face.  "Perhaps  it 
is,"  he  said  stiffly.  "And  it's  hardly  likely  to  be 
much  of  a  success  if — if  you're  going  to  take  that 
sort  of  tone." 

"I  told  you  that  I  didn't  want  you  to  come,"  she 
replied,  and  there  was  something  of  defiance  in 
her  tone  and  in  the  pose  of  her  firm,  upright  figure. 

"I  should  at  least  like  to  know  why  you  have 
taken  such  a  dislike  to  me,"  he  said.  "But  you 
might  not  feel  inclined  to  tell  me  that  in  any 
case." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   185 

"Oh !  dislike,"  she  responded,  almost  contemptu- 
ously.    "That's  much  too  strong  a  word." 

He  had  a  sense  of  hopeless  frustration.  All  her 
half-unwilling  responses  appeared  now  to  have  been 
nothing  more  than  a  condescension  to  his  ineptitude. 
And  he  was  all  too  horribly  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  he  deserved  nothing  better  than  her  contemptu- 
ous opinion  of  him.  He  was  just  an  average  young 
man  of  twenty-eight.  He  had  done  nothing  that 
thousands  of  other  young  men  had  not  done  as 
well  or  better.  The  only  boast  he  could  have  made 
would  have  been  that  of  ambition,  a  boast  that  was 
no  longer  possible  for  him  after  his  recent  admission 
that  he  meant  to  stay  on  at  Hartling  and  liked  being 
there.  He  knew  intuitively  what  her  reply  would 
be,  if  he  told  her  that  he  meant  to  study,  to  prepare 
himself  for  the  work  of  a  specialist.  Indeed,  he 
himself  saw  that  project,  now,  as  little  more  than 
a  fatuous  piece  of  self-deception.  Practice  was 
what  he  wanted:  book-work  would  be  no  good 
without  that.  And  in  five  years  he  would  be  soft 
and  over-fed;  his  nerve  would  be  gone. 

He  looked  down  and  began  to  trace  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet  with  his  toe.  "Yes,  I'm  not  worth 
hating,"  he  muttered. 

She  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 
"Well,  shall  you  be  ready  in  ten  minutes?"  she  threw 
at  him  over  her  shoulder. 

"But  if  you  would  so  much  sooner  I  didn't 
come.  .  ."  he  conceded  humbly. 

"I'll  meet  you  in  the  hall,"  she  said,  as  she  went 
out. 

He  hesitated  again  while  he  was  putting  on  his 
shoes.  If  she  merely  despised  him,  as  she  obviously 
did,  what  was  the  use  of  trying  to  win  her  confi- 
dence?    Nothing  he  could  say  or  do  would  alter 


186    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

her  opinion  of  him.  He  had  nothing  to  say.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  do.  The  most  he  could  hope 
for  would  be  to  defend  his  position  by  argument. 
He  had  little  doubt  that  her  contempt  for  him  was 
based  on  the  fact  that  he  had  consented  to  stay  on 
at  Hartling;  and  it  might  be  well  that  she  had  not, 
as  yet,  a  proper  understanding  of  his  reasons.  She 
might  not  have  heard  of  his  verbal  compact  with 
the  family  made  the  previous  day?  Was  it  worth 
while  attempting  his  own  defence? 

He  was  still  weighing  that  question  when  she 
joined  him  in  the  hall.  He  continued  to  weigh  it 
as  they  walked  together  in  silence  down  the  length 
of  the  garden. 

The  clouds  were  lifting,  and  before  they  reached 
the  big  gates  the  sun  broke  through.  He  looked 
up,  noted  the  promise  of  a  hot,  fine  day,  and  his 
spirits  began  to  rise.  What  did  it  matter  whether 
or  not  she  despised  him?  He  was  a  free  man.  He 
was  not  in  any  way  dependent  upon  her  opinion. 
If  she  chose  to  snub  him,  he  could  leave  her  to 
continue  her  walk  alone.  He  could  be  perfectly 
happy  without  her  He  was  twenty-eight,  in  perfect 
health,  and  without  a  care  in  the  world.  Why 
shouldn't  he  enjoy  life  in  his  own  way?  If  he  had 
a  regret  at  that  moment,  it  was  that  he  had  eaten 
hardly  any  breakfast. 

He  began  to  whistle  softly  under  his  breath.  He 
had  no  intention  of  beginning  the  conversation. 
He  was  content  to  enjoy  the  day  and  the  adventure 
of  this  walk — the  first  he  had  undertaken  since  he 
had  come  to  Hartling.  Except  for  the  path  to  the 
links  and  the  links  themselves,  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  country  round  about.  None  of  the  family 
ever  seemed   to  bother   about   going  outside   the 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    187 

grounds.  They  had  this  amazing  garden  and  were, 
presumably,  satisfied  with  that. 

How  little  Eleanor  was  satisfied  with  it,  however, 
was  shown  the  moment  they  passed  through  the 
gates  into  the  dusty  high-road.  She  set  back  her 
shoulders,  lifted  her  head,  and  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"It's  going  to  be  fine,  after  all,"  she  said.  "I  think 
we'll  strike  across  country  to  a  place  I  know  where 
we  can  look  right  over  to  the  South  Downs.  It's 
so  big  and  open  there." 

There  was  no  hint  of  embarrassment  or  restraint 
in  her  manner.  She  might  have  forgotten  every- 
thing that  had  passed  between  them  that  morning; 
and  Arthur,  on  his  side,  was  quite  willing  to  post- 
pone his  arguments  and  explanations,  or  even  to 
omit  them  altogether.  If  she  were  going  to  treat 
him  decently  for  the  time  being,  that  was  all  he 
asked. 

"Sounds  jolly,"  he  said. 

"It's  seven  or  eight  miles,"  she  warned  him. 

"Oh!  that's  nothing,"  he  returned.  'Tm  good 
for  all  that  and  more.    But  are  you?" 

"I've  done  it  twice  in  the  last  ten  days,"  she  said. 

"This  holiday  of  yours  is  not  altogether  an  ex- 
ception to  the  general  rule,  then?"  he  asked. 

"I've  been  out  several  times — lately,"  she  ad- 
mitted. 

He  thought  he  detected  the  suggestion  of  some 
reservation  in  her  answer,  and  said,  "Only  lately? 
Do  you  mean  that  this  is  a  new  freedom  for  you?" 

She  manifestly  hesitated  before  she  replied  to 
that,  and  her  "Oh,  no!  not  new  exactly,"  still  left 
him  in  doubt  as  to  what  was  in  her  mind. 

They  had  left  the  main  road  now,  and  were  walk- 
ing in  an  olive-green  twilight  along  a  deep,  narrow 


i88   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

lane,  its  banks  lush  with  fern  luxuriating  in  the 
warm  shade  afforded  by  high  banks,  topped  by 
hornbeam  and  hazel  hedges  that  nearly  met  over- 
head. 

Arthur  lifted  his  hat,  and  wiped  his  forehead. 
"It's  exactly  like  being  in  a  hothouse  down  here," 
he  said.     ''Rather  ripping  though." 

"We  shall  come  out  on  to  the  common  a  few  yards 
farther  on,"  Eleanor  replied.  "It's  almost  too  hot 
to  talk  here,  isn't  it?" 

He  conceded  that,  but  when  they  had  walked  on 
in  silence  for  fifty  yards  or  so  she  suddenly  said, 
"I  know  I'm  not  being  honest  with  you,  but  I  will 
be  presently,  even  if  it  does  mean  talking  about 
things  I  would  so  much  sooner  forget.  Forgetting 
isn't  being  honest,  even  with  oneself.  Only  not  till 
we're  right  out  in  the  open  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind,"  Arthur  responded 
warmly.  "And  I'd  like  you  to  do  exactly  what  you 
want  to  about — being  honest.  If  you'd  sooner  not 
talk  about  the  other  affair,  we  won't." 

She  nodded  her  agreement,  but  he  was  uncertain 
whether  or  not  she  meant  to  revert  to  Harding  as 
a  topic  of  conversation  when  they  were  "in  the 
open."  And,  when  presently  they  came  out  on  to 
the  common,  it  seemed  that  she  was  still  skirting 
that  topic,  for  she  began  to  talk  about  the  war. 

"I  was  only  fifteen  when  it  began,"  she  said,  in 
answer  to  some  comment  of  Arthur's.  "And  I 
really  didn't  understand  all  that  it  meant  until  it 
was  nearly  over.  My  grandfather  used  to  keep 
the  papers  away  from  me,  and  told  my  governess 
— Elizabeth  and  I  shared  a  governess  then — not  to 
tell  us  about  it.  But  we  all  shirked  it;  tried  to 
pretend  that  we  couldn't  do  anything.  And  in  a 
way  it  never  touched  us.    Hubert  would  have  gone 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   189 

if  my  grandfather  had  let  him,  and  at  that  time  I 
thought  Hubert  was  being  silly  about  it."  She 
paused  and  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  effect  of 
lamenting  her  own  blindness. 

"But  you  couldn't  have  helped  if  you'd  known, 
you,  personally,  I  mean,"  Arthur  said. 

"I  might  have  been  a  nurse,"  she  protested. 

"If  you  had  you  couldn't  have  come  in  till  right 
at  the  end,"  he  returned,  "and,  Lord,  we  had  quite 
enough  amateurs  at  that  game  as  it  was.  Though, 
as  it  happens,  it  crossed  my  mind  that  you  would 
make  a  good  nurse  the  first  time  I  saw  you." 

ul  believe  I  should,  too,"  she  agreed.  "I  hope  I 
may  be  some  day." 

He  made  no  comment  on  that  though  he  was 
aware  that  something  within  him  resented  the 
thought  of  her  ever  becoming  a  professional  nurse. 

"You  did  go  through  the  war,  at  all  events," 
she  went  on,  rather  as  if  she  sought  an  excuse  for 
him. 

"I,  and  about  five  million  other  men,"  he  put  in, 
determined  to  take  no  credit  on  that  score. 

"It  makes  a  difference,  all  the  same,"  she 
returned. 

"To  what?"  he  asked. 

"Oh !  everything  comes  back  to  the  same  place," 
she  said,  looking  out  straight  in  front  of  her.  "I 
knew  it  would,  when  you  asked  to  come  with  me. 
When  I'm  alone  I'm  dishonest  enough  to  forget — 
deliberately.  I  can — generally.  I  lose  myself  in 
other  thoughts." 

"Meaning  that  I'm  spoiling  your  day,"  he  put  in. 
"But  I  don't  see  why  we  should  talk  about — that — 
if  you'd  sooner  not.     I  can  forget  too. 

"No,  no,  we  must  talk  about  it,"  she  said,  "only  I 
find  it  so  difficult  to  begin.    There  are  some  things 


1 9o   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

— one  thing  at  all  events  that  you  don't  know  and 
that  I  find  it  very  hard  to  tell  you.  But  let's  wait 
until  after  lunch.  You  had  no  breakfast,  and  I 
know  a  funny  little  lost  place  on  our  way,  where  we 
can  get  something  to  eat.  It  won't  be  anything  but 
ham  and  eggs,  and  bread  and  cheese,  of  course." 

Arthur  felt  that  he  wanted  nothing  better  just 
then,  and  said  so. 

"Afterwards,"  she  concluded,  "we  will  go  to  that 
place  where  you  look  across  to  the  South  Downs, 
and — and — have  it  all  out." 

He  was  quite  content  with  that.  Whatever 
"having  it  all  out"  might  portend,  she  was  treating 
him  now  frankly  and  with  a  certain  confidence. 
Her  manner  since  they  had  left  Hartling  behind 
them,  had  completely  changed.  She  might  presently 
criticise  him  in  a  way  that  he  would  find  intolerable. 
They  might  openly  quarrel.  But  anything  would 
be  better  to  endure  than  that  air  of  contempt  and 
reserve  she  had  displayed  at  breakfast.  He  would, 
at  least,  be  given  the  opportunity  to  defend  him- 
self. He  felt  sure  that  she  had  not  understood  his 
attitude,  as  yet. 

Their  immediate  difficulty  was  to  find  a  topic  of 
conversation  that  would  avoid  any  kind  of  reference 
to  the  affairs  of  Hartling,  and  a  few  experiments 
further  demonstrated  how  the  thought  of  those 
affairs  was,  just  then,  obsessing  them  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  other  interests.  All  that  seemed  possible 
were  disjointed  scraps  of  comment  upon  the  scenery, 
or  the  wild  flowers  and  ferns  of  that  luxuriant 
Sussex  country — until  they  reached  Eleanor's  little 
wayside  inn,  and  could  drop  into  the  familiar 
interchanges  of  two  rather  hungry  young  people 
awaiting  the  inevitable  fried  ham  and  eggs  that 
was  being  prepared  for  them. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    191 

The  inn  lay  in  a  valley,  and  as  soon  as  they 
finished  their  meal,  Eleanor  pointed  to  the  hill  in 
front  of  them. 

"We  have  to  climb  that  and  then  we  are  there," 
she  said.     "Shall  we  go  now?" 

Arthur  agreed  willingly  enough.  He  was  both 
eager  and  apprehensive;  at  once  anxious  to  hear 
what  she  had  to  say  and  a  little  fearful  of  the  effect. 
So  long  as  they  could  walk  together  in  silence  he 
had  a  pleasant  feeling  of  content  in  her  company. 
Surely  she  liked  him  better  since  they  had  been 
alone  together?  She  had  not  given  the  least  sign 
of  despising  him  in  the  course  of  the  past  two  hours. 

Yet  even  when  they  had  reached  the  summit  of 
the  hill  that  marked  the  limit  of  their  journey, 
Eleanor  still  hesitated. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  grass,  leaning  a  little 
backward  and  supporting  herself  on  the  out-thrown 
struts  of  her  arms  and  hands.  Arthur  lay  on  the 
ground  a  few  feet  away  from  her.  Both  of  them 
were  looking  out  across  the  weald  to  the  broad, 
blue  contours  of  the  South  Downs  that  determined 
their  horizon,  and  hid  the  foundations  of  the  massed 
and  shining  range  of  cumulus,  slowly  setting  beyond. 
A  light,  cool  wind  was  blowing  up  from  the  invisi- 
ble sea,  and  the  heat  of  the  early  July  sun  was 
screened  by  a  thin  veil  of  haze  that  trailed  an  im- 
mense scarf  of  almost  transparent  cloud  across 
the  sky. 

Arthur  was  enjoying  a  sense  of  great  comfort. 
He  wanted  neither  to  move  nor  to  speak,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  aware  that  Eleanor's  inclination  ran 
with  his  own.  Yet  he  knew  that  the  crisis  could 
not  be  much  longer  postponed.  If  they  merely 
enjoyed  their  pleasant  idleness  and  returned  to 
Hartling  without  having  approached  the  important 


192   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

issue  that  had  been  impending  ever  since  he  had 
made  his  decision  on  the  previous  day,  they  would 
only  continue  in  their  present  impossible  relations. 
What  the  alternative  might  be  he  could  not  guess, 
though  he  had  a  premonition  that  it  would  not,  in 
any  case,  be  entirely  agreeable.  Some  conflict  was 
inevitable,  and  it  must  be  faced.  It  might  well  be, 
he  thought,  that  here  on  this  Sussex  hill,  he  would 
be  confronted  with  a  choice  that  would  prove  the 
turning  point  of  his  whole  life. 

They  had  sat  there  in  absolute  silence  for  more 
than  ten  minutes  when  Arthur  at  last  said, — 

"Well,  shall  we  talk  now  and — and  get  it  over?" 

She  did  not  change  her  position  nor  turn  her 
gaze  from  the  distances  of  the  South  Downs  as  she 
replied, — 

"We  will  talk,  but  you  mustn't  think  that  we  can 
ever  'get  it  over.'  It  will  go  on  just  the  same — 
perhaps  for  years  and  years." 

"In  one  sense,  perhaps,"  he  admitted,  his  eyes 
admiringly  intent  on  her  steady  profile;  "but  it  will 
get  over  this — this  misunderstanding  between  you 
and  me,  I  hope." 

"It  may,"  she  said;  "but  you  don't  in  the  least 
understand  yet.  You  don't  understand,  for  instance, 
that  after  this,  either  you  or  I  will  have  to  leave 
Harding." 

He  sat  up  with  a  start  of  surprise,  and  moved  a 
little  nearer  to  her.  "But,  good  Lord;  why?,}  he 
asked  in  a  voice  that  sufficiently  expressed  the  depth 
of  his  incomprehension. 

"Because  of  that  thing  you  don't  know,"  she  said, 
still  without  turning  her  head;  "because  my  grand- 
father wants  to — to  throw  us  together."  And  then, 
having  unburdened  herself  of  this  difficult  essential, 
she  continued  quickly  before  he  had  time  to  reply, 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    193 

"That's  why  I've  been  given  so  many  holidays  lately, 
though  that  isn't  my  chief  reason  for  knowing.  Not 
that  that  matters,  does  it?  I  do  know  for  certain; 
never  mind  how.  And  I  have  known,  oh!  for  a 
month  or  more,  though  he  has  never  said  a  word  to 
me  directly.  So  you  see  now,  don't  you,  that  that's 
a  fact  which  makes  all  the  difference  to  our  talk, 
and  how  impossible  it  was  for  me  to  say  anything 
to  you  until  you  knew  it  too?" 

He  waited  for  a  few  seconds  after  she  had  fin- 
ished before  he  said  quietly,  "I  ought  to  have 
guessed  really;  but  I  didn't.  He  said  something  to 
me  about  it  yesterday  morning — that  he  had  hoped 
you  and  I  would  be  friends,  or  something  of  the 
sort." 

"And  you,  what  did  you  say?"  she  put  in. 

"I  told  him  that  I  was  afraid  you  didn't  like  me, 
and  then  he  said  that  in  that  case  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  done.  We  didn't  mention  it  again.  It 
was  before  I  told  him  about  Hubert." 

"Though,  whether  I  like  you  or  not  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  it,  of  course,"  she  commented 
thoughtfully. 

"Hasn't  it?"  he  asked,  as  if  he  doubted  that 
inference. 

"Nothing  whatever,"  she  insisted. 

"Still  if — I  mean — it  seems  to  me  that  .  .  ."  he 
began;  but  she  cut  him  short  by  saying  with  an 
impatient  lift  of  her  chin, — 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  perfectly  well.  You 
needn't  try  to  put  it  into  words.  That  isn't  really 
the  point  at  all." 

"What  is  the  point  then?"  he  asked  in  bewilder- 
ment. "I  may  be  frightfully  stupid,  but  I  can't  quite 
see  .  .  ." 

She  turned  her  face  still  farther  away  from  him 


*94   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

as  she  said  in  a  scarcely  audible  voice,  "Nothing 
should  ever  induce  me  to  be  a  bait  for  you." 

A  bait!  He  saw  in  a  flash  the  peculiar  implica- 
tions of  the  word  she  had  used,  but  hesitated  to 
accept  them. 

"You  can't  mean  that  Mr  Kenyon  has  deliber- 
ately tried  to — throw  us  together,  in  order  to  keep 
me  in  the  house?"  he  urged,  his  tone  apologising 
for  the  unlikelihood  of  such  a  wild  deduction. 

"Of  course  I  mean  that,"  she  returned  bitterly. 

"But  why?"  he  pressed  her.  "Why  should  he 
want  to  keep  me  as  much  as  all  that?" 

"He  does,"  she  said,  and  then  as  he  was  mani- 
festly still  doubtful,  continued,  "I  can't  tell  you 
why.  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  he  wants  to 
keep  us  all  there  till  he  dies.  But  you — you  were 
different.  I  wondered  when  he  first  invited  you 
what  he  meant  to  do.  There  was  something  I 
disliked,  instinctively,  in  the  way  he  asked  about 
you.  It  was  just  as  if  he — he  was  trying  to  catch 
you  then.  And  when  I  saw  you  that  first  night  I 
tried  to  warn  you.  I  daren't  say  very  much.  We 
none  of  us  dare  because  we  know  that  he's — oh! 
inhuman  in  a  way;  that  he  would  turn  any  one  of 
us  out  to-morrow  without  a  penny  if  he  thought  that 
we  were  working  against  him. 

"Oh!  surely  not,"  Arthur  protested. 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "He  seems  to  have  made 
you  believe  in  him,"  she  said. 

"He  has  been  most  frightfully  decent  to  me,  you 
see,"  Arthur  replied  emphatically. 

"Did  he  say  anything  to  you  about  my  father 
yesterday?"  she  asked,  turning  to  face  him  for  the 
first  time. 

"Something,"  he  acknowledged. 

"Did  he  tell  you  how  my  father  pleaded  with 


hir 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    195 

him,  offered  to  do  or  to  be  anything,  if  only  he 
might  be  allowed  to  marry  my  mother  ?" 

Arthur  shook  his  head.  "No,  he  didn't  tell  me 
that.    What  was  his  objection?"  he  said. 

"My  father  never  knew — unless  it  was  that  my 
mother  had  no  money  of  her  own.  I  only  know 
what  Uncle  Joe  told  me,  of  course,  but  he  heard 
all  about  it  at  the  time.  I  don't  believe  that  he 
had  any  real  objection.  You  can  never  be  sure 
whether  he  will  say  yes  or  no  to  anything,  but  you 
may  be  quite  certain  whichever  it  is,  that  he  will 
stick  to  it  afterwards  whatever  happens.  And  he 
said  'No'  to  my  father,  and  turned  him  out  of 
the  house  because  he  was  willing  to  give  up  any- 
thing in  the  world  rather  than  my  mother.  And 
when  he  had  been  gone  about  a  month  he  sent  that 
elephant's  foot  that  stands  in  the  hall.  He  meant 
it  as  an  insult.  Uncle  Joe  says  that  they  were 
afraid  to  tell  him.  They  all  knew  what  it  meant, 
of  course;  that  it  was  a  sort  of  symbol  of  his 
methods.  But  he  wasn't  the  least  bit  insulted.  He 
seemed  to  be  proud  of  it,  and  had  it  put  where  it  is 
now,  for  every  one  to  see." 

She  had  been  speaking  rapidly,  almost  fiercely, 
with  an  excitement  completely  unlike  her  usual 
rather  staid  manner. 

"But  why  have  you  gone  on  staying  there  if  you 
feel  like  that?"  Arthur  asked. 

She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face  for  a  moment 
and  then  looked  at  him  with  a  whimsical  smile. 
"You  aren't  the  only  person  who  has  been  blind," 
she  said. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  have  only  been  feeling 
like  that  just  lately?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  only  seven  when  I  came,"  she  said,  "and  I 
was  brought  up   there.     I  never  went  to  school. 


196   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

And  you  take  things  for  granted  when  you're 
brought  up  in  a  place  because  it's  the  only  world 
you  know,  and  you  think  the  others  must  be  much 
about  the  same.  I  did  begin  to  wake  up  a  little  in 
the  last  year  of  the  war,  but  even  then  it  all  seemed 
natural  enough  in  a  way.  He  was  so  old,  and  one 
made  all  sorts  of  excuses  for  him.  And  then,  of 
course,  for  months  or  even  years  at  a  time  he  seems 
to  be  as  sweet  and  gentle  as  any  one  could  be.  He 
can  be  most  awfully  kind  to  people.  .  .  ."  She 
paused  on  a  reflective  note,  as  if  she  still  sought 
excuses  for  him. 

"But  what  happened  to  make  you  change  your 
mind  just  lately?"  Arthur  prompted  her. 

She  blushed  vividly,  and  again  turned  her  eyes 
towards  the  lavender  distances  of  the  downs.  "I've 
really  seen  the  thing  happening  for  myself,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice.  I'd  had  hints  from  Uncle  Joe 
before,  plenty  of  them;  but  like  you  I  didn't  believe 
them.  There  was  more  excuse  for  me.  I  had  been 
brought  up  with  it.  I  believed  he  was  odd,  eccen- 
tric. He  might  seem  rather  cruel  sometimes;  but  I 
thought,  as  I  suppose  you  do  still,  that  he  was 
really  trying  to  do  the  best  for  every  one." 

"But  you  don't  now?"  Arthur  asked. 

"I've  been  watching  him — and  thinking — since 
you  came,"  she  said  slowly,  hesitating  between  her 
phrases.  "And  it  has  seemed — as  if  I  had  got  the 
key  of  a  puzzle  that  had  been  worrying  me.  It — 
it  worked.  It  accounted  for  so  much  that  had  been 
just  a  little  mysterious.  I  have  had,  sometimes,  a 
horrid  feeling  of  uneasiness  and  have  been  angry 
with  myself  for  doubting  him.  But  after  you  came — 
I  suppose  it  was  just  an  accident  that  it  was  con- 
nected with  you,  more  particularly;  it  would  have 
been  just  the  same  with  any  one  else,  of  course — well 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    197 

after  that,  as  I  said  just  now,  I  saw  it  all  happen- 
ing. 

She  paused,  but  Arthur  made  no  reply.  He  was 
leaning  on  his  elbow  looking  down  over  the  broken 
sweep  of  the  weald.  For  him,  the  "key"  of  which 
she  had  spoken  was  not  yet  plain.  There  were 
traits  in  the  character  of  the  old  man,  that  Arthur 
believed  were  not  consistent  with  Eleanor's  judg- 
ment of  him  as  "inhuman." 

His  mind  was  busy  with  the  search  for  excuses 
and  extenuations,  when  Eleanor  began  in  a  new 
voice,  UI  suppose  you  think  it  very  rotten  of  me 
to  have  said  all  that  about  him,  and,  in  any  case, 
you  don't  believe  me." 

"I  do;  I  do,"  Arthur  protested,  rousing  himself 
from  his  abstraction.  "I  don't  think  it's  rotten  of 
you  in  the  very  least.  What  I'm  doubting  is  whether 
your  deductions  are  sound." 

She  appeared  now  to  have  given  up  any  hope 
of  persuading  him,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  frank 
smile  as  she  said,  "Well,  I  suppose  we  ought  to  be 
setting  our  faces  towards  home?" 

"Oh,  no!  not  yet,"  Arthur  replied,  with  such 
evident  distress  in  his  voice  that  she  laughed  out- 
right. 

"But  surely  you  must  be  pining  to  get  back  to 
your  golf  and  billiards  and  croquet?"  she  suggested. 
"Or,  if  we  start  now,  we  might  get  in  some  tennis 
after  tea." 

"I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  heard  you  laugh 
before  to-day,"  was  Arthur's  answer. 

"It  isn't  exactly  a  gay  house,  is  it?"  she  replied. 

"My  Lord,  no,  it  isn't,"  Arthur  agreed,  after  a 
moment's  reflection;  "though  I  don't  think  I'd 
thought  of  it  like  that  before.  Elizabeth  always 
laughs  as  if  she  had  been  wound  up  inside  and  set 


198    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

going,  and  none  of  the  others  really  laugh  at  all. 
Certainly  Hubert  doesn't.  I  wonder  if  Miss  Martin 
will?" 

Eleanor's  face  grew  grave  again.  uOh !  the  poor 
dear,"  she  exclaimed.    "She'll  probably  get  my  job." 

"Your  job?"  Arthur  ejaculated.  "But  you're  not 
going  to  give  it  up,  are  you?" 

She  smiled  tolerantly.  "Didn't  I  begin  by  saying 
that?"  she  reminded  him.  "Either  you  or  I  will 
have  to  go,  and  it's  quite  clear  that  you  can't." 

"Can't?"  he  repeated     "If  you  go  .  .  ." 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  complete  his  sentence. 
"As  you  pointed  out  this  morning,"  she  put  in 
quickly,  "you've  promised  to  stay.  My  conscience 
is  clear  of  promises,  at  any  rate." 

"But,  good  Lord,  where  could  you  go  tof  What 
could  you  do?"  he  remonstrated. 

"I  could  go  to  the  Paynes,"  she  said,  "the  people 
who  brought  me  over  from  Rio.  He  has  retired 
from  the  Cable  Company  and  they're  living  at  a 
place  called  Northwood,  somewhere  near  London, 
I  think.  I  couldn't  stay  with  them  indefinitely,  of 
course,  but  they  would  help  me  to  get  something 
to  do.  I'm  quite  well  educated  for  a  commercial 
career.  Grandfather  didn't  want  me  to  learn  type- 
writing and  shorthand,  but  he's  glad  now,  because 
they're  so  useful  to  him.  My  job  isn't  a  sinecure, 
you  know.  I  do  really  work  quite  hard.  You'd  be 
surprised  what  a  big  correspondence  my  grand- 
father has  about  his  money  affairs.  And  then  I've 
got  French,  and  I  can  read  German,  though  I  write 
it  rather  badly.  I  should  think  I  ought  to  be  worth 
about  three  pounds  a  week." 

"Oh,  no!"  Arthur  exclaimed  in  despair.  He 
could  not  endure  the  thought  of  her  working  in  a 
city  office. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    199 

"But  oh,  yes!"  she  said.  "I  was  thinking  about 
it  all  before  you  came.  The  war  made  me  dis- 
satisfied. We  none  of  us  did  anything,  and  I 
couldn't  help  feeling  what  empty,  useless  lives  we 
were  living  here." 

"I  don't  see  that  you'd  be  doing  anything  more 
by  working  for  a  millionaire  in  the  city  than  by 
working  for  Mr  Kenyon,"  Arthur  put  in. 

"I  know.  That  weighed  with  me,"  she  agreed. 
"What  I  really  want  is  to  be  a  nurse.  Only  I  don't 
quite  know  how  to  begin.  But  you  can  tell  me 
about  that,  can't  you?" 

He  pushed  her  inquiry  on  one  side.  "I  can't  see," 
he  said,  "why  either  you  or  I  have  to  leave.  I  can't 
really." 

She  had  been  talking  to  him  freely,  almost  gaily, 
but  now  her  manner  took  on  the  air  of  constraint 
with  which  she  had  begun  the  conversation. 

"Need  we  go  back  to  that?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  of  course  we  must,"  he  said  in  an  ag- 
grieved tone.  "As  far  as  I  can  see  that's  what  we 
came  out  to  talk  about." 

"But  we  settled  it,"  she  returned.     "I'm  going!" 

"And  if  I  went  ?  If  I  broke  my  promise  and  went 
instead,  would  you  stay?" 

"I  might  for  the  sake  of  the  others,"  she  said. 
"I  do  help  them  a  little.  And  in  spite  of  everything, 
I'm  sorry  for  him — for  that  wicked  old  man  up- 
stairs." She  dropped  her  voice  and  looked  down 
at  her  clasped  hands  as  she  concluded,  "He  is 
wicked,  although  you  may  not  believe  it." 

"Even  so,"  Arthur  argued,  choosing  to  ignore 
that  point  for  the  moment,  "I  don't  in  the  least  un- 
derstand why  my  going  should  make  any  difference 
one  way  or  the  other." 

She  bent  her  head  a  little  lower  as  she  said,  "No 


200   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

doubt  it's  very  quixotic  and  sentimental  of  me,  but 
I  can't  bear  to  watch  your  life  being  ruined.  It's 
different  with  the  others.  They're  so  helpless. 
Hubert  is  not  fit  to  earn  his  own  living,  and  Ken — 
if  he  comes — would  probably  be  safer  there  than 
he  would  in  town.  He  is  very  wild.  If  he  comes, 
he'll  probably  marry  Elizabeth  and  settle  down." 

Arthur  saw  that  at  last  the  time  had  come  to 
set  out  his  defence.  "Yes,  but  why  take  it  for 
granted  that  I  should  be  wasting  my  life?"  he  began, 
and  then,  with  one  or  two  pauses  at  first,  but 
gathering  confidence  in  his  own  argument  as  he 
went  on,  he  laid  before  her  his  plans  for  studying 
at  Harding  and  his  hope  for  the  future. 

She  listened  to  him  attentively,  attempting  no 
comment,  either  by  word  or  gesture  until  he  had 
finished.  He  believed  that  he  had  convinced  her, 
until  she  said  gently, — 

"And  if  my  grandfather  lives  more  than  five 
years?     What  then?" 

"He  can't,"  Arthur  expostulated.  "People  don't 
live  as  long  as  that." 

"A  few  do,"  she  said,  "I  saw  in  one  of  the  papers 
a  day  or  two  ago,  that  Miss  Spurgeon,  the  preach- 
er's aunt,  would  be  one  hundred  and  one  next 
month." 

Arthur  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Frightfully 
exceptional  case,"  he  muttered. 

"This  might  be  a  frightfully  exceptional  case, 
too,"  she  insisted.  "You  don't  find  anything  wrong 
with  him,  do  you?  And  he  lives  such  a  sheltered, 
detached  sort  of  life.  Nothing  ever  upsets  him. 
He  hasn't  altered  the  least  little  bit,  all  the  years 
I  have  known  him.  And  you  know,  don't  you,  that 
thirty  years  ago  it  began  in  just  the  same  way  with 
the  others?     They  thought  that  he  wouldn't  live 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   201 

more  than  Rve  years,  or  ten  at  the  outside."  She 
could  not  look  at  him,  as  she  concluded  gently, 
"Don't  waste  your  life  as  they've  done.  Anything 
would  be  better  than  that." 

He  saw  it  all  quite  clearly.  He  knew  that  she 
was  right.  But  something  within  him  continued  to 
protest  fiercely  against  her  advice.  He  could  no 
longer  doubt  that  she  was  entirely  disinterested. 
He  was  consoled,  even  a  trifle  flattered,  by  the  fact 
that  she  so  evidently  desired  his  welfare.  But  he 
didn't  want  to  leave  Hartling,  and  he  feverishly 
sought  excuses  for  staying.  He  could  find  half  a 
dozen  that  would  satisfy  himself,  but  he  knew  them 
for  sophistries  and  dared  not  put  them  into  words. 

She,  on  her  side,  seemed  disinclined  to  add  any- 
thing to  what  she  had  already  said,  and  for  some 
minutes  they  sat  in  silence.  Eleanor  returned  to 
her  study  of  the  distant  downs  and  Arthur,  with 
his  head  in  his  hands,  furiously  sought  an  escape 
from  the  dilemma  imposed  by  her  two  alternatives. 

It  was  Eleanor  who  at  last  broke  the  long  silence. 
"I  must  be  going  now,"  she  said — sighed,  rose  to 
her  feet,  and  began  to  brush  and  shake  the  grass 
from  her  skirt.  "There  is  absolutely  nothing  more 
to  be  said,"  she  continued,  "and  in  any  case  we 
shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  say  it  on  the  way 
back." 

He  nodded  rather  resentfully  and  followed  a  pace 
or  two  behind  her  as  they  made  their  way  down 
the  hill.  He  could  not  as  yet  overcome  the  feeling 
that  it  was  "hard  lines"  on  him  to  be  sent  away  from 
Hartling.  For  that  was  what  it  all  amounted  to. 
He  would  have  to  go — promise  or  no  promise.  He 
could  not  possibly  allow  her  to  get  work  in  some 
city  office,  or  enter  herself  as  probationer  at  a 
hospital,  while  he  idled  away  his  time  at  Hartling. 


202    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

Also  he  hated  the  thought  of  her  mixing  either  with 
city  clerks  or  young  medical  students.  They  were 
a  coarse  lot,  and  she  would  certainly  meet  with  all 
kinds  of  beastly  advances.  In  imagination  he  could 
hear  the  men  at  the  hospital  talking  about  her 
among  themselves,  and  his  face  burnt  with  anger, 
first  at  the  intolerable  familiarities  of  his  hypo- 
thetical students,  and  then  with  himself  for  thinking 
these  thoughts  in  connection  with  her.  Still  she 
would  know  how  to  protect  herself.  No  one  could 
be  more  aloof  and  cold  than  she  was  sometimes. 
If  that  warm  generosity  of  hers  did  not  betray  her? 
Those  silly  young  fools  at  the  hospital  would  not 
understand.  They  .  .  .  He  found  a  relief  in  men- 
tally cursing  the  particular  type  of  young  medical 
student  he  had  all  too  vividly  pictured.  He  saw 
himself  taking  one  of  them  by  the  throat  and 
choking  the  life  out  of  him. 

No,  it  was  obvious  that  in  no  circumstances  what- 
ever, could  she  be  permitted  to  face  that  kind  of  life. 
Plenty  of  nice  girls  did,  of  course;  but  she  was 
different.  And  a  city  office  would  be  just  as  bad, 
or  worse.  It  was  impossible  to  imagine  her  mixing 
with  a  crowd  of  dirty  little  Cockney  clerks  or  greasy 
business  men.     Damn  them. 

After  all,  Peckham  would  not  be  so  bad.  Somers 
was  one  of  the  best  and  would  be  tremendously  glad 
to  hear  that  he  was  coming  back.  Only — that 
would  be  the  end,  so  far  as  any  hope  of  seeing 
Eleanor  was  concerned — until  the  old  man  died — 
and  it  was  perfectly  true,  as  she  had  said,  that  he 
might  be  an  example  of  one  of  those  exceptional 
cases  of  longevity.  He  saw  the  probability  more 
clearly  now  that  his  interest  was  more  detached. 
Up  there  at  the  house,  they  were  compelled  to  cheat 
themselves  with  the  belief  that  it  could  not  last 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING  203 

much  longer.  Life  would  not  be  endurable  without 
that  hope.  They  had  been  living  on  it,  some  of 
them,  for  forty  years.  .  .  . 

He  suddenly  awoke  to  the  fact  that  this  might 
be  the  last  time  he  would  be  alone  with  Eleanor  and 
that  he  was  wasting  it  in  these  perfectly  detestable 
reflections,  when  he  might  be  talking  to  her. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind,"  he  said,  quickening  his 
pace  to  catch  her  up.  "I'll  go.  You're  quite  right. 
I  can't  stay  there  now." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  hint  of  question  in 
her  face. 

"I  couldn't  stand  the  thought  of  your  going  into 
a  hospital  or  an  office,"  he  continued.  "You've  no 
idea  of  the  sort  of  thing  that  you  have  to  put  up 
with  and  the  people  that  you  have  to  mix  with; 
no  idea." 

"Oh !  but  I  don't  want  you  to  go  in  order  to  save 
me"  she  exclaimed. 

"But  you'd  go  to  save  me"  he  returned. 

She  gave  a  little  protesting  laugh.  "No,  I 
shouldn't  save  you  if  I  went,"  she  said.  "You  would 
stay  on  here  then.  All  I  said  was  that  I  would  not 
be  used  as  an  influence  to  make  you  stay.  You 
remember  what  I  told  you  about  my  grandfather's 
plans.  Well,  sooner  than  that,  I'd  do  anything. 
It's  purely  selfish,  I  admit  that.  I  don't  mind  your 
being  ruined,  you  see,  but  I  won't  take  any  sort 
of  responsibility  for  it." 

"But  in  that  case,"  he  submitted.  "I  might  stop 
on  for  a  time  at  all  events,  if  it  was  quite  certain 
that  you  weren't  the  case  of  my  staying. 

"No,  no;  don't  begin  like  that,"  she  broke  out 
passionately.  "Once  you  begin  to  procrastinate  and 
find  excuses  there'll  be  no  end  to  it.  That  must 
have  been  how  they  all  began." 


204    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"You're  evidently  most  frightfully  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  me,"  he  grumbled.  He  had  seen  a  ray  of 
hope  and  resented  her  instant  extinction  of  it. 

"Oh!  don't  be  so  babyish!"  she  said  petulantly. 
"You  must  know  that  it  hasn't  anything  to  do  with 
getting  rid  of  you." 

"I  don't  see  what  else  it  can  be,"  he  returned 
sulkily. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  but  attempted  no 
other  answer,  and  they  did  not  speak  again  until 
they  were  back  in  the  deep,  overhung  lane  and 
within  half  a  mile  of  Hartling.  It  was  there  that 
he  made  his  last  effort. 

"Would  it  be  risking  too  much  if  I  stayed  on  for 
just  one  more  week?"  he  asked.  His  spurt  of 
temper  had  evaporated  and  he  was  once  more 
humble,  concilating. 

"Why  a  week?"  she  replied  doubtfully. 

He  braced  himself  to  make  the  test  he  had  been 
considering  for  the  last  half-hour.  "I  should  like 
to  have  one  more  talk  with  you  before  I  go." 

"And  you  wouldn't  say  anything  to  my  grand- 
father in  the  meanwhile?" 

"No.    If  I  did  he  might  sling  me  out." 

"You  believe  he'd  do  that,  then?" 

"Oh,  yes !     I  believe  that." 

"But  not  that  he  is — inhuman?" 

"I  find  it  difficult.    No,  I  can't  credit  that." 

"But  you  would  stick  to  your  idea  of  going  at  the 
end  of  a  week  from  now?" 

"Absolutely."  ^ 

"I  wonder  if  it's  wise  to  let  you  stay  a  week?" 
she  murmured  half  to  herself. 

"Seven  days  surely  can't  make  any  difference," 
he  pleaded. 

"Exactly;  so  why  have  them?"  she  returned. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING  205 

"No  difference  so  far  as  my  prospects  are  con- 
cerned," he  said. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  replied  quickly,  as  if  she  were 
afraid  that  he  might  go  on  to  elaborate  his  rea- 
sons for  wanting  his  week's  grace.  "But  are  you 
quite  sure  of  yourself?  Are  you  sure  that  at  the 
end  of  the  week  you  won't  want  to  put  it  off 
again?" 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,"  he  said  sol- 
emnly, and  went  on,  "I've  made  up  my  mind.  I'll 
write  to  Somers  as  soon  as  I  get  in  and  tell  him  to 
expect  me  next  Tuesday." 

They  reached  the  gates  of  Hartling  as  he  was 
speaking,  and  automatically  they  both  paused  as 
if  this  agreement  were  one  that  must  necessarily 
be  made  outside  that  enclosure. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

He  took  it  and  held  it  as  he  replied.  "And  that 
other  favour?  You  haven't  granted  it  yet.  Will 
you  give  me  at  least  one  more  chance  to  talk  to 
you  alone  before  I  go?" 

"Oh !  you're  sure  to  have  that,"  she  said  lightly. 

"But  will  you  promise?" 

"If  you  like,"  she  agreed. 

It  was  as  they  were  walking  up  the  garden  that 
they  decided  upon  the  necessity  for  keeping  the  news 
of  his  departure  from  the  rest  of  the  family.  Some 
sense  of  freedom  had  left  them  as  they  passed 
through  the  gates,  and  already  Arthur  was  begin- 
ning to  wonder  at  the  comparative  ease  with  which 
he  had  made  his  decision  to  leave  Hartling.  Now 
that  he  was  back  again  in  the  garden  that  had 
become  so  familiar  to  him  in  the  course  of  the  last 
five  weeks  he  felt  again  the  lure  of  its  shelter.  The 
place  was  so  secure,  so  rich  with  the  promise  of 
comfort  and  rest,  of  freedom  from  all  the  struggles 


206    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

and  responsibilities  of  the  world.  Probably  none 
of  the  Kenyons  had  ever  wanted  to  leave  it  (Hubert 
was  happy  enough  now  that  he  was  going  to  marry 
Dorothy  Martin.  If  he  were  offered  £5000  to  go  to 
Canada  with  her,  he  probably  would  not  take  it). 
They  pretended  to  be  imprisoned,  played  with  the 
idea  of  having  ambitions.  It  was  a  sort  of  boasting. 
No  doubt  they  wanted  their  jailor  to  die.  He  stood 
between  them  and  the  semblance  of  freedom.  But 
when  he  was  dead  and  they  were  independent,  they 
would  almost  certainly  go  on  living  there  just  as 
they  were  doing  now.  They  wouldn't  want  to 
change  their  habits  after  all  these  years. 

It  was  amazing  how  differently  he  saw  the  prob- 
lem, now  that  he  was  back  again  within  the  enclosure 
of  those  protecting  walls. 

Nevertheless,  he  wrote  to  Somers,  even  giving 
him  the  time  of  the  train  by  which  he  might  be 
expected  on  the  following  Tuesday.  He  was,  he 
thought,  being  rather  quixotic,  but  he  meant  to 
keep  his  promise  to  Eleanor,  and  ask  to  be  released 
from  the  one  he  had  made  to  the  old  man.  And 
if  that  release  were  denied,  what  could  he  do? 
Insist?  Say  calmly  that  he  meant  to  go  whether 
he  were  released  or  not?  Allow  the  old  man  to 
regard  him  as  an  ungrateful  cad?  Or  make  Eleanor 
bear  witness?  Make  a  clean  breast  of  everything 
and  say  that  one  or  the  other  of  them  had  to  go, 
and  he  preferred  that  it  should  be  himself,  for 
excellent  reasons?  It  was  just  possible  that  they 
might  both  be  turned  out  if  the  old  man  knew  that 
they  had  been  plotting  against  him  as  it  were.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  might  suggest  that  the  difficulty 
could  be  overcome — in  another  way. 

Arthur  jumped  to  his  feet  and  began  to  pace 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING  207 

fiercely  up  and  down  his  bedroom.  Lord,  if  only 
that  had  been  possible,  what  a  difference  it  might 
have  made.~  She  had  been  kind  enough  to  him 
while  they  were  out  together.  He  had  some  reason 
to  believe  that  she  did  not,  after  all,  really  dislike 
him.  But  it  was  absolutely  futile  to  hope  that  she 
would  ever  marry  him.  He  was  not  good  enough 
for  her.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman  who  would 
love  with  all  her  heart  and  soul,  if  she  ever  loved 
at  all.  Probably  she  never  would.  There  were  not 
any  men  good  enough  for  her.  .  .  . 

He  seemed  to  know  her  infinitely  better  since 
that  walk.  Before  that  he  had  had  a  vision  of  her 
as  a  forlorn  little  child  of  seven,  but  what  she  had 
told  him  this  afternoon  gave  him  the  material  to 
follow  her  development  up  to  the  present  day.  He 
could  see  her  as  a  girl  of  sixteen,  having  lessons 
with  her  governess,  and  being  kept  in  comparative 
ignorance  of  the  war;  and  again  a  year  or  two  later, 
beginning  to  guess  at  the  true  significance  of  that 
great  catastrophe.  He  had  a  new  sense  of  having 
known  her  all  her  life.  It  was  difficult  to  imagine 
life  without  her.  Yet,  if  this  affair  turned  out  as 
he  had  every  reason  to  expect  it  would,  he  might 
never  see  her  again.  .  .  . 

A  man  was  so  impotent.  If  she  did  not  care  for 
him,  that  was  the  end  of  it.  He  could  not  make 
her  care  for  him.  The  root  of  the  whole  trouble 
probably  was  that  she  despised  him  for  staying  on 
there  in  the  first  instance.  She  had  classed  him  in 
her  mind  with  all  the  others,  a  hanger-on,  a  weak 
fool  who  preferred  to  inherit  money  rather  than  to 
earn  it!  And,  good  God,  she  had  been  right! 
That  was  what  he  had  been,  a  cursed  parasite, 
living  on  a  friendly  host.  Commensalism.  Somers 
had  guessed  it  too.     Any  one  who  had  not  been 


208    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

perverted  by  this  infernal  Hartling  atmosphere 
could  see  it.  And  Eleanor,  who  had  not  been  per- 
verted, the  one  exception  in  that  place,  had  judged 
him  without  bias,  had  seen  him  as  he  was.  Little 
wonder  that  she  had  despised  him.  His  one  hope 
now  was  to  prove  that  she  had  in  effect  misjudged 
him.  He  must  tell  her  that  he  had  realised,  how- 
ever tardily,  the  kind  of  weak  fool  that  he  had  been, 
and  he  would  support  his  confession  by  action.  He 
would  not  wait  for  a  week,  he  would  go  the  next 
day.  He  would  see  her  for  a  minute  after  dinner, 
and  just  announce  his  determination,  ask  her  to 
make  sure  of  his  appointment  with  the  old  man 
next  morning.  .  .  . 

Before  he  went,  he  would  make  an  opportunity 
to  say  good-bye  to  her.  It  was  a  heroic  measure, 
but  the  only  way  by  which  he  could  hope  to  recover 
her  esteem. 

In  his  bath,  and  while  he  was  dressing  for  dinner, 
he  deliberately  took  his  leave  of  luxury.  He  had 
lived  the  life  of  a  millionaire  for  more  than  five 
weeks ;  might  live  it,  if  he  chose,  for  perhaps  another 
five  years.  But  he  was  willing,  eager,  to  renounce  it 
all  in  order  that  he  might  recover  Eleanor's  esteem. 
He  would  make  still  greater  sacrifices  if  he  could 
win  that  reward. 

And,  oddly  enough,  there  was  another  compensa- 
tion which  he  had  not  consciously  sought,  but  which 
he  was  instantly  aware  of  as  a  result  of  his  decision 
— he  was  a  free  man  again.  As  he  stood  and 
looked  at  his  reflection  in  the  glass  before  going 
down  to  dinner,  he  was  aware  of  that  same  feeling 
of  release  that  had  come  to  him  when  he  had  made 
his  petition  on  behalf  of  Hubert,  the  day  before. 
He  lifted,  njs  head  with  a  touch  of  arrogance  and 
squared  his  shoulders.    Good  God !  what  a  damned 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   209 

fool  he  had  been  ever  to  dally  with  the  thought  of 
staying  on  indefinitely  at  Hartling.  He  was  an 
independent  man  now,  in  a  kingdom  of  slaves.  The 
Kenyons,  after  all,  were  to  be  pitied  rather  than 
condemned.  What  was  the  good  of  all  this  luxury 
if  you  were  not  the  captain  of  your  own  soul?  Am- 
bition, work,  and  independence  were  the  only  things 
worth  living  for — if  you  could  not  have  love. 
But  if  it  had  not  been  for  her.  .  .  . 

He  was  so  full  of  his  new  resolve  and  so  anxious 
to  tell  Eleanor,  that  he  completely  overlooked  the 
unusually  chastened  air  of  the  dinner-table  that 
evening.  He  was  trying  to  make  an  appointment 
with  Eleanor  by  some  almost  invisible  signal,  and 
she  persistently  avoided  his  eloquent  stare.  Only 
twice  did  she  meet  his  eyes,  and  on  both  occasions 
she  turned  away  her  head  almost  immediately.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  lost  all  that  he  believed  he  had 
gained  at  the  conclusion  of  their  walk.  Yet  it  was 
impossible  that  anything  could  have  happened  since, 
to  change  her  new  opinion  of  him.  In  any  case,  he 
would  see  her  after  dinner,  even  if  he  had  to  follow 
her  upstairs.  She  would  forgive  him  when  she 
heard  what  he  had  to  say. 

He  hardly  noticed  that  Elizabeth — who  was 
dressed  in  black  that  evening,  a  colour  that  did  not 
suit  her — was  moody  and  depressed,  or  that  Miss 
Kenyon  seemed  to  have  temporarily  lost  something 
of  her  autocratic,  self-contained  manner.  And  he 
was  far  too  engrossed  with  his  own  affairs  to  at- 
tempt any  inferences  from  the  slight  indications 
that  he  could  not  altogether  overlook.  He  merely 
assumed  that  they  were  a  little  duller  than  usual — 
and  pitied  them. 

He  looked  up  once  or  twice  at  the  head  of  the 


210    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

table,  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  various  ap- 
proaches by  which  he  might  most  gently  break  his 
news  the  next  morning,  but  the  old  man  showed  no 
sign  of  any  unusual  disturbance. 

The  moment  Miss  Kenyon  gave  her  sister-in-law 
the  signal  to  rise,  Arthur  jumped  to  his  feet.  He 
meant  to  allow  no  interference  with  his  plans  on 
this  occasion.  He  was  ready,  if  Miss  Kenyon  spoke 
to  him,  to  pretend  that  he  had  not  heard  her.  But 
no  one  intervened  between  him  and  Eleanor.  They 
actually  left  the  dining-room  together. 

She  turned  towards  the  staircase  as  they  entered 
the  hall,  and  afraid  that  she  might  run  away,  he 
began  at  once,  "Could  I  speak  to  you  for  one  min- 
ute?   It's  important.     I  .  ♦  ." 

"Yes,  I  saw  your  signals  at  dinner,"  she  inter- 
rupted him,  none  too  graciously. 

"Oh!  did  you?  I'm  sorry.  I  thought  you  didn't 
understand,"  he  apologised.  "You  see,  the  fact  is 
that  I  have  decided  to  go,  to  leave  here,  to-morrow. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you,  because  I  must  see  Mr  Kenyon 
before  I  go." 

They  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  staircase  now 
and  she  went  up  two  stairs  before  she  turned  and 
looked  at  him,  their  eyes  almost  on  a  level.  Her 
forehead  was  puckered  into  a  little  anxious  frown. 
"Why  have  you  changed  your  mind?"  she  asked. 

He  was  warmed  to  a  boldness  that  he  had  not 
dared  hitherto.  "I've  been  thinking  over  all  our 
talk  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  "particularly  yours, 
and  I  realised  how  absolutely  right  you  were  in  de- 
spising me  for  hanging  on  here,  and  I  felt  that  I 
could  not  stay  another  twenty-four  hours." 

She  stretched  out  her  arm  and  rested  her  fingers 
on  the  magnificent  width  of  the  mahogany  hand- 
rail.   "Why?"  she  asked. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING  211 

"I  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  you  despised 
me,"  he  said. 

"I  never  did/'  she  replied  gently;  "only  I  was 
sorry." 

He  was  too  drunk  with  the  vapours  of  his  own 
resolve  to  catch  the  finer  significance  of  her  answer. 
"It's  frightfully  kind  of  you  to  say  that,"  he  said, 
"but  you've  made  me  despise  myself,  and  anyhow 
I'm  going.  So  will  you  ask  Mr  Kenyon  if  he  can 
see  me  to-morrow  morning?" 

She  smiled  faintly  at  the  impetuosity  of  his 
boasting. 

"I'm  afraid  he  can't,"  she  said.  "He  won't  be 
here  to-morrow." 

"Not  here?"  he  repeated  in  astonishment,  and 
then  as  the  implications  of  that  unexpected  news 
became  clearer  to  him,  he  added,  "Then  it's  possible 
that  I  might — that  we  could  have  another  walk  or 
something?" 

She  smiled  more  openly  now.  "It  is,  just  pos- 
sible," she  said.  "If  you  feel  that  you  can,  after  all, 
put  off  your  departure  for  another  day." 

"Oh,  of  course,  in  that  case!"  he  said  eagerly, 
and  added,  "Besides,  I  must  see  him  before  I  go. 
How  long  will  he  be  away?" 

"He'll  be  back  to-morrow  afternoon,"  she  told 
him.  "He's  only  going  up  to  town  in  the  car  for 
the  day.     Haven't  you  heard?" 

"Heard?  What?  No,  I  don't  believe  I've 
spoken  to  any  one  hardly  since  we  came  in.  Has 
anything  happened?" 

"One  of  the  periodical  rumblings  of  the  earth- 
quake," she  said. 

He  was  alive  now  to  this  new  issue.  "Can't  you 
tell  me?"  he  asked. 

She  glanced  round  the  hall   and  up   the  stairs 


212    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

before  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "He  had  a  letter 
from  Ken  by  the  second  post,  a  defiant  letter,  and 
rather  rude.  Ken's  going  to  break  away,  he  has 
borrowed  the  money  to  pay  the  worst  of  his  debts, 
and  leave  enough  over  to  pay  his  passage  to  South 
Africa.  He  knows  some  one  who  has  a  farm  there 
and  he's  going  to  join  him.  Uncle  Charles  and 
Aunt  Catherine  are  fearfully  upset,  of  course,  and 
it's  one  of  those  rare  occasions  when  the  founda- 
tions of  the  house  begin  to  shake.  I've  only  seen 
it  happen  before  in  the  case  of  servants  who  have — ■ 
well — broken  away,  but  the  effect  is  much  the  same, 
though  the  rumblings  are  deeper  this  time." 

"Is  he  very  annoyed?"  Arthur  asked.  "He  didn't 
seem  upset  at  dinner." 

"He?  Oh,  no!  He's  as  calm  as  Fate,"  Eleanor 
said,  "and  as  cruel." 

"But  why  is  he  going  up  to  town?  Is  he  going 
to  see  Ken  himself?" 

She  shook  her  head,  glanced  once  more  round 
the  hall,  and  then  bending  towards  him,  whispered, 
"He's  going  to  see  his  lawyer  and  alter  the  will. 
He  hasn't  said  so,  but  every  one  knows." 

Arthur  pursed  his  mouth.  "Pity  I  couldn't  see 
him  before  he  goes,"  he  remarked.  "Might  save 
him  another  journey." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  frank  approval,  smiling 
her  appreciation  of  his  humour.  "You're  not  afraid 
of  him,  are  you?"  she  said. 

He  was  afraid  of  nothing,  as  long  as  he  could 
win  her  smiles,  but  he  didn't  brag.  "There's  no 
reason  why  I  should  be,  is  there?"  he  replied. 

"Absolutely  none,"  she  said  confidently.  "But 
you  may  find  him  difficult,  harder  to  deal  with  than 
you  think.  It  was  different  with  Ken.  He  didn't 
want  to  keep  Ken.     He  does  want  to  keep  you.     I 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   213 

must  go  now.    I've  a  heap  of  letters  to  do  for  him." 

"But  shall  I  see  you  to-morrow?"  he  said,  as  she 
turned  and  began  to  ascend  the  shallow  stairs. 

She  did  not  answer  that,  but  when  she  was  half- 
way up  the  second  flight  she  looked  back  at  him 
and  waved  her  hand. 

He  was  more  than  content.  That  last  glance  of 
hers  had  again  approved  him.  He  had  won  a 
measure  of  admiration  from  her  by  his  decision. 
And  to-morrow,  he  would  have  her  to  himself — 
possibly  for  the  whole  day.  .  .  . 

He  was  still  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  he  went  on  up  to 
his  own  room.  He  could  not  stand  that  crowd 
downstairs  to-night.  They  would  be  depressingly 
gloomy,  full  of  horrible  forebodings  about  the 
impending  alterations  to  that  untidy  will.  He 
wanted  to  be  alone  with  his  own  glorious  thoughts. 


XI 


XI 

ARTHUR  hoped  that  he  might  meet  Eleanor  at 
the  breakfast-table  again  the  next  morning,  but 
although  he  put  in  an  appearance  before  Miss 
Kenyon  and  Hubert  had  finished,  and  waited  until 
after  his  aunt  had  come  down,  he  saw  nothing  of 
Eleanor.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  she  was  probably  busy  with  some  preparation 
for  her  grandfather's  visit  to  town. 

He  was  awake  now  to  the  effect  that  the  visit 
was  having  on  the  household.  They  were  all 
uneasy,  even  Miss  Kenyon,  all  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
unnecessarily  nervous  about  their  future.  He 
inferred  something  of  this  attitude  from  the  pre- 
occupation of  the  three  members  of  the  family  he 
met  at  the  breakfast-table;  and  later,  his  inference 
was  fully  confirmed. 

They  were  momentarily  shaken  out  of  the  belief 
into  which  they  habitually  lulled  themselves,  the 
belief  that  eventually  they  must  all  be  decently 
provided  for.  The  security  of  Harding  itself  was 
threatened.  Who  knew  what  the  old  man  might 
do  in  some  fit  of  eccentricity?  He  might  devise  the 
estate  to  be  used  as  a  convalescent  home  or  as  a 
country  house  for  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer, 
if  he  chose.  No  one  had  the  power  to  stop  him  or 
dispute  his  testament  afterwards.  For  all  legal 
purposes  he  was  sane  enough. 

Joe  Kenyon,  Turner,  and  Hubert  were  all  in  the 
library  at  ten  o'clock,  but  it  was  certainly  not  their 

217 


218   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

interest  in  the  morning  papers  that  kept  them 
there.  Yet,  although  they  were  manifestly  unable 
to  keep  their  attention  on  what  they  were  reading, 
they  appeared  disinclined  to  talk. 

Arthur  was  not  less  fidgety  than  the  other  three. 
He  could  not  decide  whether  it  would  be  better  to 
wait  for  Eleanor  after  the  old  man  had  gone,  or  to 
go  and  find  her.  She  might  have  a  certain  amount 
of  work  still  to  do  that  morning,  and  if  so,  might 
prefer  to  remain  undisturbed  until  she  had  done 
it.  On  the  other  hand,  she  might  expect  him  to 
come  and  fetch  her. 

"What  time  is  Mr  Kenyon  going?"  he  asked  at 
last,  addressing  his  question  vaguely  to  the  company 
at  large. 

Neither  Turner  nor  Hubert  took  any  notice,  but 
after  a  slight  hesitation  Joe  Kenyon  pulled  out  his 
watch,  stared  at  it  absent-mindedly,  and  then  said, 
"Oh,  I  don't  know!  About  half-past  ten  or  eleven 
probably.    He  generally  does." 

Arthur  put  down  his  paper  and  walked  over  to 
the  window.  From  there  he  could  see  the  car 
already  drawn  up  at  the  front  door,  but  the  attitude 
of  Scurr,  comfortably  reclining  in  the  driver's  seat, 
seemed  to  imply  that  he  was  well  accustomed  to 
waiting.  Waiting  was  an  art  in  which  one  acquired 
proficiency  at  Hartling.  Those  who  could  not 
acquire  it,  like  Ken  Turner,  had  no  place  there. 
Eleanor  was  the  single  exception  to  all  rules.  She 
worked.  ...  So  did  Miss  Kenyon,  for  that  matter. 
She  ran  the  house  amazingly  well.  But  she  waited, 
just  as  much  as  the  others.  She  had  been  disturbed 
by  the  "rumblings  of  the  earthquake" — was  doubt- 
ful of  her  security.  Eleanor  did  not  care.  She 
would  be  glad  to  go. 

The  front  door  opened  soon  after  eleven  o'clock, 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   219 

and  Arthur  saw  the  head  of  the  house  come  out 
with  Eleanor  in  attendance. 

"He's  just  going,"  Arthur  announced  to  the  other 
occupants  of  the  library,  and  they  dropped  their 
papers  at  once  and  came  over  to  the  window. 

The  old  man  was  just  getting  into  the  car.  He 
needed  no  help.  Eleanor  stood  by  with  a  despatch 
case,  which  she  gave  to  him  after  he  was  seated, 
but  she  did  not  offer  to  assist  him  in  any  other  way. 
He  was  quite  capable  of  looking  after  himself.  He 
stepped  into  the  car  like  a  man  of  sixty.  Then 
Scurr  closed  the  door,  and  touched  his  cap,  and  in 
another  minute  they  were  slipping  down  the  drive. 
None  of  the  family  had  gone  to  the  door  to  see  him 
off.  Not  once,  since  he  had  been  at  Hartling,  had 
Arthur  seen  any  sign  of  filial  affection  displayed  by 
the  family.  The  old  man  patronised  them  with 
his  gentle  smile,  but  apparently  he  never  looked  for 
any  return  other  than  obedience  and  respect.  He 
did  not  expect  gratitude. 

Joe  Kenyon  stretched  himself  in  a  prodigious 
yawn  as  the  car  vanished  over  the  bridge.  "Re- 
minds me  of  the  day  poor  old  Jim  went,"  he  said. 

Little  Turner  had  begun  to  pace  the  width  of  the 
room  under  the  windows.  He  had  his  hands  on  his 
hips,  slowly  smoothing  them  as  he  walked.  He 
looked  even  neater  and  sleeker  than  usual  this 
morning,  but  he  was  manifestly  agitated.  That 
odd,  mechanical  rubbing  of  his  hands  up  and  down 
his  hips  was  the  action  of  a  man  unconsciously 
seeking  some  relief. 

"Well,  it  didn't  so  far  as  we  know,  make  any 
difference  to  us,  then,"  he  commented,  in  reply  to 
his  brother-in-law's  remark. 

"So  far  as  we  know,"  Joe  Kenyon  repeated,  awk- 
wardly settling  himself  down  in  the  window-seat. 


220  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"All  U.P.  with  Ken,  of  course,"  Turner  went  on. 
"I  hope  to  God  he'll  make  some  sort  of  a  do  of  it 
in  South  Africa.  He  might — one  never  knows.  I 
wish  I  could  have  done  more  to  help  him." 

"Absolutely  impossible  to  do  anything,"  Joe 
Kenyon  said,  looking  out  of  the  window.  "Fact 
was  he  didn't  really  want  Ken.  Got  a  strong  streak 
of  Jim  in  him.  I've  noticed  it  before.  He'll  do 
all  right,  I  expect.  Jim  would  have,  in  time.  He 
had  bad  luck,  that  was  all.  Damned  sorry  for  you 
and  Catherine  all  the  same." 

"Wish  to  God  I  could  go  with  him,"  Turner  said. 
His  brother-in-law  thrust  out  his  under-lip  and 
shook  his  head.  "Too  soft  for  that  kind  of  life,"  he 
murmured,  still  staring  out  of  the  window. 

Turner  chose  to  overlook  that  remark.  "It's 
this  cursed  lack  of  ready  money  that  beats  you 
every  time,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  paced  up  and  down. 
"No  getting  round  that  anyway.  We  couldn't  raise 
five  hundred  pounds  between  us  to  save  our  eternal 
souls." 

Hubert,  leaning  against  the  end  of  the  massive 
oak  table  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
solemnly  nodded  his  head.  "Not  three  hundred," 
he  said  judicially. 

Turner  looked  at  him  for  an  instant,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"Nothing  whatever  to  be  done,"  he  went  on. 
"We  know  that  by  this  time.  No  need  for  him  to 
show  his  fangs  again  to  teach  us  that." 

"Glad  to  have  the  opportunity  all  the  same,"  Joe 
Kenyon  put  in. 

Arthur,  despite  his  immense  preoccupation  with 
the  thought  of  Eleanor,  could  not  help  listening. 
They  had  never  hitherto  spoken  as  frankly  as  this 
before  him.     "Do  you  mean,"  he  put  in,  "that  he 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   221 

is  sort  of  intimidating  you  by  going  up  to  town?" 
He  did  not  realise  until  he  had  spoken  that  by 
saying  "you"  instead  of  "us"  he  had  implied  the 
separateness  of  his  own  interest  in  the  affair. 

Turner  stopped  his  walk  and  the  nervous  move- 
ment of  his  hands  and  stared  at  Arthur  with  a  look 
that  was  not  quite  free  from  suspicion.  "What 
else?"  he  jerked  out,  frowned  impatiently,  and  then 
resumed  his  pacing,  but  this  time  with  more  de- 
liberation. 

Joe  Kenyon,  huddled  into  an  ungainly  heap  in 
the  window  seat,  was  more  honest  or  less  discreet. 
"We're  all  in  the  same  boat,  my  boy,"  he  said,  a 
remark  that  might  have  been  addressed  either  to 
his  brother-in-law  or  his  nephew,  and  continued: 
"Of  course  it's  done  to  intimidate  us.  We've  seen 
that  trick  played  too  often  to  doubt  it.  Any 
excuse'll  do.  It  hasn't  been  one  of  the  family  since 
Jim  went,  so  this  is  a  very  special  occasion;  but  even 
if  it's  only  been  one  of  the  servants  going  to  leave, 
he  has  never  missed  the  chance  of  underlining  the 
fact  that  he  can  alter  his  will  whenever  he  feels 
like  it." 

Turner  had  come  to  rest  in  front  of  Arthur  while 
this  explanation  was  being  made,  and  now  prodded 
him  gently  in  the  chest  with  an  elegant  forefinger. 
"All  the  same,  my  lad,"  he  said  on  a  note  of  warn- 
ing, "you'd  better  keep  quiet  about  what  you  know 
or  think  you  know.  We've  been  a  trifle  upset  this 
morning;  it  isn't  altogether  pleasant  for  a  father 
to  see  his  son  turned  adrift  without  a  penny  in  his 
pocket,  but  getting  excited  won't  make  matters 
better  for  any  of  us." 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  Arthur  began,  and 
stopped  abruptly.  He  had  been  on  the  verge  of 
telling  them  that  they  need  have  no  more  doubts 


222   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

about  him,  since  this  was  almost  certainly  his  last 
day  at  Harding,  but  as  he  began  to  speak  a  doubt 
of  his  prudence  in  making  that  announcement 
overtook  him.  Once  they  knew  he  was  going,  they 
would  again  look  upon  him  as  an  outsider  and 
cease  to  have  the  least  regard  for  him.  Turner 
or  Miss  Kenyon — he  trusted  the  others — might  use 
him  as  a  pawn  in  their  own  interests  and  anticipate 
him  in  conveying  the  news  to  old  Kenyon — an 
eventuality  that  he  wished  to  avoid,  for  despite  all 
the  evidence  that  was  being  presented  to  him,  he 
still  believed  that  they  did  the  old  man  less  than 
justice,  and  it  was  his  disappointment  rather  than  his 
anger  that  Arthur  feared  at  the  coming  interview. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact?"  Turner  repeated,  with 
raised  eyebrows,  after  a  decent  pause. 

"Well,  I've  no  personal  interest  to  serve,  have 
I?"  Arthur  said.  "I  made  it  quite  clear  to  you,  I 
hope,  that  I  have  no — no  expectations,  and 
shouldn't  accept  any  legacy  if  it  were  left  to  me." 

"You  wouldn't  accept  anything,  not  even  a 
thousand  pounds,  for  instance?"  Turner  asked. 

"Not  a  red  cent,"  Arthur  returned  with  decision. 
He  could  say  that  now,  he  reflected,  with  perfect 
safety. 

"Then  why  stay?"  Turner  said. 

Arthur  blushed  vividly,  the  blush  of  a  naturally 
honest  man  caught  in  an  equivocation,  but  Turner 
misread  its  origin. 

"No  need  to  be  embarrassed,"  he  went  on.  "We 
guessed  it  would  be  like  that,  and  the  old  man 
seems  favourable.  But  doesn't  it  strike  you  as 
probable  that  if  the  affair  comes  off  you  may  change 
your  mind  about  those  possible  expectations?  I'm 
not  talking  without  something  to  go  on,  my  boy. 
I've  been   through   precisely  the   same   experience 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING    n^ 

myself."  He  sighed  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
as  he  concluded.  "And  a  damned  dirty  mess  I've 
made  of  it." 

Arthur's  blush  had  been  restimulated  by  Turner's 
misconception  as  to  its  cause,  and  still  burnt  his 
face  as  he  replied,  "There's  no  earthly  chance  of 
that,  if  you  mean  .  .  .  what  I  presume  you  do. 
And  in  any  case,  I'm  not  going  to  stay.  I've  made 
up  my  mind  about  that.  I  shall  be  leaving  here,  for 
good,  fairly  soon." 

Joe  Kenyon  looked  up  hopefully.  "Wise  man," 
he  commented,  and  Hubert  nodded  a  melancholy 
agreement. 

"Fairly  soon?"  Turner  rollec}  the  words  over  with 
a  rather  impish  enjoyment.  "Ah,  well!  we  can 
re-discuss  the  precise  intention  of  'fairly  soon'  in 
a  month's  time." 

Ever  since  Mr  Kenyon  had  gone  Arthur  had  been 
fretting  intermittently  over  the  problem  of  whether 
he  should  take  the  initiative  or  leave  it  to  Eleanor, 
and  this  indirect  talk  of  her  was  increasing  his 
impatience.  It  was  nearly  a  quarter  to  twelve  now, 
and  the  morning  was  slipping  away.  He  had  hoped 
that  she  might  either  come  to  look  for  him  or  send 
him  a  message  but  every  minute  that  possibility 
grew  less  probable.  Yet  he  did  not  care  to  leave 
the  library  at  this  point  in  the  conversation.  It 
would  look  as  if  he  were  trying  to  shirk  the  issue.^ 

"I  certainly  shan't  be  here  a  month,"  he  said, 
addressing  little  Turner;  "almost  certainly  not 
another  week." 

"Does  the  old  man  know  that?"  Turner  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  Arthur  said.  "But  I'm  going  to  tell 
him  at  once.    To-morrow  morning  at  latest." 

Turner  was  reflectively  twisting  the  ends  of  his 
neat  moustache. 


224   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"Oh,  well !  my  boy,"  he  remarked,  "we'll  wait  to 
settle  that  point  of  when  you'll  go  until  after  you've 
seen  him.  He  may  have  a  card  or  two  to  play  that 
you  haven't  guessed  at  so  far.    Eh,  Joe?" 

Joe  Kenyon  pursed  his  mouth.  His  expression 
was  not  hopeful. 

"I've  quite  made  up  my  mind,"  Arthur  said,  with 
what  he  hoped  was  an  effect  of  complete  finality. 
He  had  settled  his  problem  now.  He  would  go  and 
find  Eleanor.  All  the  day,  his  last  day,  might  be 
lost  if  he  waited  for  her.  She  might  be  angry  with 
him,  but  he  would  risk  that.  He  could  not  endure 
this  suspense  any  longer.  He  could  hear  the  hall 
clock  striking  twelve. 

Little  Turner  with  a  knowing,  half-whimsical 
look  of  doubt  on  his  face,  still  stood  in  front  of  him. 

"Well,  it's  no  good  arguing  that,  is  it?"  Arthur 
continued  irritably.  "You'll  know  for  certain  to- 
morrow." 

Turner  turned  away  with  a  shrug  of  his  neat 
shoulders.  "Wonderful  house  for  to-morrows, 
this,"  he  said.     "Always  has  been." 

Arthur,  inspired  to  pretend  that  he  considered 
himself  insulted,  walked  out  of  the  room.  By  that 
little  piece  of  chicane  he  escaped  from  all  his 
dilemmas  at  a  stroke.  He  had  been  horribly  afraid 
that  if  he  attempted  some  excuse  to  get  away, 
Hubert  might  offer  to  accompany  him.  The  sug- 
gestion of  golf  had  hung  in  the  air  as  a  way  of 
passing  the  afternoon,  and  some  sort  of  untruthful 
evasion  would  have  been  necessary  to  avoid  it. 

He  went  first  to  the  drawing-room  on  the  off- 
chance  that  Eleanor  might  have  come  as  far  as  that 
in  search  of  him,  but  no  one  was  there  except  his 
aunt  and  Mrs  Turner;  the  latter,  sitting  with  her 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   225 

hands  in  her  lap  staring  fixedly  out  of  the  window. 
She  had  obviously  been  crying.  His  aunt  did  not 
look  up  from  her  fancy-work  as  he  passed  through 
with  an  air  of  having  accidentally  intruded  upon  a 
private  ceremony.  Poor  old  Mrs  Turner;  it  had 
not  occurred  to  him  that  she  would  be  so  upset 
by  her  son's  departure  for  South  Africa.  He  was, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  lucky  to  have  broken  away; 
but  to  the  Kenyons,  no  doubt,  the  evils  of  the  outer 
world  appeared  altogether  monstrous  compared 
with  the  securities  of  Harding. 

He  had  no  hesitation  now  as  to  where  he  should 
seek  Eleanor.  Unless  she  had  gone  out  without 
him — a  ghastly  alternative  that  he  refused  to 
believe — she  must  be  upstairs  somewhere  in  old 
Mr  Kenyon's  private  suite.  But  when  he  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  little  room  whose  chief  use 
appeared  to  be  that  of  a  lobby,  no  one  answered. 
He  had  never  before  entered  the  suite  unannounced, 
and  he  opened  the  door  and  went  in  with  a  faint 
sense  of  trepidation.  The  room  was  empty  and 
the  door  to  the  next  room  closed,  but  this  time  he 
entered  without  knocking. 

He  was  now  in  the  apartment  in  which  he  had 
always  been  received  when  he  paid  his  morning 
visit,  and  farther  than  this  he  had  never  penetrated. 
Obviously,  however,  there  were  other  rooms  be- 
yond. He  remembered  that  he  had  seen  Eleanor  go 
through  that  way  sometimes  when  he  had  been 
engaged  with  the  old  man,  and  as  he  stood  hesi- 
tating he  thought  he  heard  very  remotely  the 
clicking  of  a  typewriter.  He  went  over  to  the 
farther  door  and  knocked,  and  was  answered  faintly 
from  within.  He  discovered  then  that  there  were 
double  doors,  four  feet  apart,  between  him  and  the 


226  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

next  room.  When  he  had  opened  the  second  he 
found  himself  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  perfectly 
appointed  office. 

The  walls  were  nearly  hidden  by  white-lettered 
deed-boxes,  pedestals  of  standard  letter-files,  a 
tremendous  nest  of  card-index  drawers,  and  a  book- 
case containing  four  or  five  hundreds  works  of 
reference:  law-books,  encyclopaedias,  directories, 
gazetteers,  registers  and  official  reports.  Flush 
with  the  face  of  the  wall  that  divided  this  office 
from  the  room  through  which  he  had  just  passed 
was  the  door  of  what  was,  no  doubt,  an  enormous 
safe.  The  centre  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  an 
extensive  solid  oak  table,  at  which,  seated  with  her 
back  to  him,  Eleanor  was  engaged  with  a  type- 
writer. 

She  did  not  turn  round  as  he  came  in,  and  said, 
without  stopping  her  work  or  looking  up,  "Shut 
both  doors  behind  you,  and  sit  down  over  there. 
I  shan't  be  very  long." 

So  she  was  expecting  him,  was  his  thought  as  he 
followed  her  instructions,  and  she  was  not  pre- 
sumably altogether  displeased  with  him  for  coming. 
He  sat  down  on  the  seat  of  one  of  those  oriel  win- 
dows that  were  the  most  pleasing  feature  of  Hart- 
ling's  south  elevation.  He  did  not,  however,  turn 
his  attention  to  the  panorama  of  the  gardens  that 
stretched  out  below  him,  nor  to  the  glimpses  of  the 
rolling  Sussex  country  visible  as  an  effect  of  blue 
mysterious  freedoms  beyond  the  wardenship  of  that 
stiff,  enclosing  wall.  He  had  no  eyes,  no  thought 
for  anything  but  Eleanor. 

From  here,  he  could  watch  her  earnest,  intent 
profile,  bent  a  little  forward  over  the  typewriter. 
She  looked,  he  thought  a  trifle  flushed,  and  some- 
thing  in   her   intense   concentration   on   her   work 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   227 

gave  her  the  air  of  being  faintly  embarrassed,  an 
air  that  was  not  less  marked  when  she  whirled  the 
letter  off  the  roller  and  having  glanced  at  it  said 
in  a  formal  voice,  "This  is  our  office,  the  heart  of 
the  house.  Don't  you  think  it  looks  very  orderly 
and  business-like?" 

He  agreed  without  enthusiasm.  His  mind  was 
still  obsessed  with  the  idea  that  they  were  again 
going  out  together  to  the  hill  that  had  the  view 
of  the  South  Downs.  He  felt  no  inclination  just 
then  to  discuss  the  business  affairs  of  old  Kenyon. 

"This  is  the  mainspring  of  the  whole  machine," 
Eleanor  went  on,  looking  at  the  range  of  deed  boxes 
in  front  of  her;  "and  I  don't  think  there  is  the  least 
fear  of  the  machine  breaking  down.  We  are  very 
methodical  and  very  safe.  We  never  gamble.  We 
don't  pretend  to  be  far-sighted  or  ingenious,  we're 
just  plodders,  adding  a  few  thousands  to  our  capital 
every  year.  Do  you  know  that  there  are  securities 
in  this  room  worth  well  over  half  a  million?  I  can't 
give  you  exact  figures  because  there  are  one  or  two 
secrets  into  which  the  private  secretary  is  not  ad- 
mitted. But  I  do  know  that  even  after  we've  paid 
the  enormous  sums  demanded  from  us  in  taxes,  our 
income  considerably  exceeds  our  disbursements." 
She  looked  round  at  him  as  she  added,  "Aren't  you 
dazzled?  Don't  you  feel  exalted  by  being  in  the 
presence  of  all  this  wealth?" 

He  was  puzzled,  uncertain  of  her  mood.  Her 
speech  had  had  a  strong  flavour  of  irony,  but  there 
was  no  trace  of  it  in  her  manner.  "Oh !  confound 
the  beastly  money,"  he  said,  "I  came  up  to  see  if 
we  were  going  for  another  walk." 

"Not  to-day,"  she  said.  "I  have  far  too  much 
to  do.  Perhaps  this  letter  I've  just  written  will 
explain  why." 


228    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

She  held  it  out  towards  him,  and  he  jumped  up 
and  took  it  from  her  and  then  read  it,  leaning 
against  the  edge  of  the  table. 

It  was  addressed  to  Mrs  Payne,  and  after  a  few 
opening  phrases,  continued:  "I  want  to  come  and 
stay  with  you  for  a  week  or  two  if  you  could  possibly 
manage  to  have  me.  I  can't  tell  you  why  till  I  see 
you,  but  I  should  like  to  come  on  Friday,  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  I  know  it  is  dreadfully  short 
notice.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off  there  and  looked  at  her  in  bewilder- 
ment. His  mind  had  leapt  back  to  their  talk  on 
the  hill.  Was  she  doing  this,  he  wondered,  in  order 
that  he  might  stay  on? 

"But  I  don't  in  the  least  understand  why  you 
have  written  this,"  he  said  frowning.  "Why  are 
you  going?  Do  you  mean  that  you're  leaving  here 
for  good?" 

She  nodded  gravely. 

"But  why?"  he  persisted.  "I  thought  that  we 
agreed  .  .  ." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  go?"  she  asked. 

"No.    I  don't,"  he  said  emphatically. 

"Would  you  stay  on  if  I  went?"  she  returned. 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  Nothing  on  earth  should  in- 
duce me  to,"  he  declared  vehemently,  still  regarding 
her  departure  as  an  alternative  to  his  own. 

"Then  what's  your  objection?"  she  said. 

His  eyes  were  suddenly  opened  then  to  a  new 
prospect.  He  would  not  lose  sight  of  her  if  they 
both  left  Harding.  He  hated  the  thought  of  her 
working  in  a  London  office,  but  she  would  be  within 
his  reach  there.  He  could,  in  a  sense,  look  after 
her.  They  could  meet  quite  often — if  she  were 
willing. 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  "that  we  might  both  go?" 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   229 

"I  know  of  no  reason  why  your  going  should 
affect  me  one  way  or  the  other."  Her  tone  was 
cold,  even  a  trifle  disdainful. 

He  was  slightly  taken  aback.  "No,  no,  of  course 
not.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  he  agreed. 
"But  what  has  made  you  change  your  mind?  Or 
don't  you  want  to  tell  me  that?" 

She  got  up  from  her  chair  and  walked  over  to  the 
window.  "There's  one  thing  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
first,"  she  said.  "Will  my  going  have  the  least  effect 
on  your  own  plans?" 

He  considered  that  for  a  moment  before  he  re- 
plied with  perfect  sincerity.  "Absolutely  none. 
Whatever  happens,  I'm  going  back  to  Somers 
to-morrow  afternoon." 

She  had  turned  her  back  on  him  and  was  looking 
out  over  the  prospect  that  had  so  recently  failed 
to  interest  him. 

"It  isn't  altogether  that,"  she  said  over  her 
shoulder,  making  a  gesture  with  her  hand  that  may 
have  indicated  the  distant  weald  of  Sussex.  "I 
shouldn't  go  if  it  were  only  that  I  wanted  to  be  free 
and  independent." 

She  paused  so  long  after  this  statement  that  he 
was  emboldened  to  prompt  her  by  saying,  "You 
seem  to  have  made  up  your  mind  so  suddenly." 

"The  truth  is  that  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice.     "I  simply  can't  stand  it." 

He  waited  patiently  this  time  for  her  to  continue. 
He  saw  that  she  had  something  to  say  which  she 
found  difficult  to  put  into  words.  The  pose  of  her 
upright  figure  suggested  a  certain  tensity  of  motion 
and  when  after  another  silent  interval  she  turned 
and  faced  him,  her  hands  were  clenched. 

"And  I'm  haunted  by  the  fear  that  I  may  be 
wrong  after  all,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  as  if  for 


230   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

help.  "And  you  are  the  last  person  in  the  world, 
I  suppose,  who  can  tell  me  whether  I  am  wrong 
or  not." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  yet.  Is  it  about  him 
— Mr  Kenyon?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  deign  to  answer  his  question  directly. 
"You're  supposed  to  know  something  about  psy- 
chology, aren't  you?"  she  went  on.  "Well,  is  it 
possible  for  a  man  to  lose  all  decent,  human  feeling 
even  for  his  own  family?" 

"Lord,  yes,"  Arthur  replied.  "Speaking  gen- 
erally, of  course,  misers,  for  instance.  Some  of 
them  seem  to  lose  all  human  feeling." 

"He  isn't  the  least  a  miser,"  she  put  in.  "He's 
often  extraordinarily  generous  outside  his  own 
family." 

"I  only  instanced  that  as  a  well-known  type,"  he 
said.    "But  drink  or  drugs  will  do  the  same  thing." 

"Yes,  but  in  all  those  cases  there  is  always  a 
definite  vice  of  some  sort,"  she  complained.  "Some- 
thing that  you  can  take  hold  of,  understand  more 
or  less,  as  a  cause  for  it  all.  But  he  hasn't  any 
vices,  unless  you  can  call  it  a  vice  to  be  deliberately 
cruel  to  your  own  children  and  grandchildren  with- 
out any  apparent  reason." 

"But  is  he  actually  cruel?"  Arthur  remonstrated. 
"Doesn't  he  perhaps  really  mean  it  all  for  their 
own  good.  He  may  be  deluded — he  almost  said 
as  much  to  me — into  thinking  that  they  are  weaker 
and  less  capable  than  they  actually  are;  but  that 
would  be  a  natural  delusion  enough  in  a  man  of 
his  age." 

Eleanor  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
confutation.  "And  you !"  she  exclaimed.  "Does 
he  believe  that  you  aren't  capable  of  looking  after 
your  own  interests  too?" 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   231 

"Why  me?"  Arthur  objected. 

"Because  he  has  been  trying  to  get  you.  Oh! 
manifestly  trying  to — to  add  you  to  his  collection," 
she  exclaimed  passionately.  "It  was  that  that 
opened  my  eyes.  Until  you  came,  I  had  hardly  a 
doubt  of  him.  I  didn't  like  the  life  we  lead  here. 
It  bored  me.  I  believe  I've  always  hated  money — it 
must  have  been  born  in  me,  if  that's  possible.  But 
I  believed  more  or  less  what  you  do  now,  that  he — 
looked  after  them,  that  his  only  fault,  if  anything, 
was  that  he  looked  after  them  too  much. 

"And  then  there  was  the  suggestion  of  your 
coming  here  for  a  week-end  visit.  That  was  some- 
thing rather  exceptional.  We'd  had  old  Mr  Bed- 
dington  not  long  before — it  was  he  who  told  my 
grandfather  about  you — and  I  remember  wondering 
whether  he  was  beginning  to  pine  for  more  company 
or  something.  And  I — I  was  rather  interested  in 
what  I  heard  of  you;  we  talked  a  little  about  you 
once  or  twice,  and  one  day,  after  you  had  accepted 
the  invitation,  he  threw  out  a  kind  of  hint  that 
he'd  like  to  keep  you  here.  That  bothered  me 
somehow.  I'd  made  some  sort  of  picture  of  you  in 
my  mind,  and  I — it's  difficult  to  explain  exactly — 
but  I  didn't  like  the  idea  of  your — getting  like  the 
others.  Some  silly,  romantic  school-girl  notion  or 
other.     I  don't  know  quite  why." 

She  paused  and  turned  back  to  the  window.  Her 
colour  had  risen  again,  and  Arthur  believed  that  she 
was  embarrassed  by  her  thought  of  him  as  the  hero 
of  her  old  dream.  How  bitterly  disappointed  she 
must  have  been  when  she  had  found  that  her 
imagined  hero  had  been  a  mere  idler,  like  the  others, 
willing  to  slack  about  and  play  games,  in  the  hope 
of  a  place  in  the  old  man's  will !  Good  God,  what 
a  poor  thing  she  must  have  thought  him!     He 


232    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

looked  down  and  began  aimlessly  to  smooth  the 
carpet  with  his  foot.  He  felt  utterly  humiliated 
and  miserable.  Without  a  word  of  reproach  she 
had  exposed  the  weakness  and  unworthiness  of  him; 
and  he  could  only  acknowledge  that  she  was  right. 

He  did  not  look  up  at  once  when  she  turned  back 
to  him  and  went  on.  "It  was  the  first  time  that  I 
had  seen  the  thing  happening,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean.  I  could  follow  all  the  stages  of  it.  I  saw 
how  he  let  you  enjoy  the  easiness  of  the  life  here 
before  he  made  any  sort  of  offer,  and  then  just 
dangled  it  in  front  of  you  and  tried  to  make  it  look 
as  if  you  would  be  doing  him  a  favour.  Well,  that 
was  true  enough  in  a  way — you  were.  But  the 
horrible  thing,  to  me,  was  that  he  never  paid  you 
any  salary.  That  really  opened  my  eyes  more  than 
anything.  He  believed  that  you  had  given  up  your 
work  at  Peckham;  that  what  would  mostly  likely 
tempt  you  away  from  here  was  the  idea  of  going 
to  Canada,  and  he  wanted  to  make  that  impossible. 
I  know  that  was  it.  I'm  perfectly  certain  of  it. 
And  on  the  top  of  it  there  came  that  affair  about 
Hubert's  engagement  and  this  fuss  over  Ken.  That 
finished  it  for  me.  Ken  isn't  really  bad.  Most 
young  men  in  his  place  would  have  got  into  debt, 
and  I  don't  believe  that  he  was  the  least  angry 
about  that.  Of  course  the  money  to  put  the  debts 
straight  was  nothing  at  all  to  him.  He  wouldn't 
have  thought  twice  about  that,  but  he  has  just 
turned  Ken  out  without  the  least  thought  for  poor 
Aunt  Catherine,  who  is  simply  heartbroken  about 
it.  I  believe  Uncle  Charles  is  really  more  upset, 
too,  than  he  cares  to  admit." 

"I  know.     I  was  talking  to  him  this  morning," 
Arthur  put  in. 
*      "Well,  will  you  tell  me  why  he  does  these  things 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   233 

if  he  is  not  an  inhuman,  heartless  brute?"  Eleanor 
concluded. 

Arthur  could  find  no  answer  to  that. 

"But  you  still  believe  in  him?"  she  asked. 

"It's  so — so  incredible,"  he  said. 

"Oh !  and  this  morning !"  Eleanor  broke  out,  with 
a  passion  of  resentment  in  her  voice.  "All  this 
petty,  silly,  detestable  business  of  his  going  up  to 
town  to  alter  his  will.  Why?  I  don't  believe  for 
a  moment  that  he  ever  left  Ken  anything.  He  never 
liked  him.  Ken  was  too  independent  to  please  him. 
No;  I  believe  that  he  has  gone  to  see  Mr  Fleet 
to-day,  just  to  make  them  feel  his  power  over  them. 
He  was  glad  of  the  opportunity.  .  .  ." 

"That's  exactly  what  they  were  saying  downstairs 
just  now,"  Arthur  admitted.  "That  he  was  glad 
of  the  opportunity  to  shake  them  up  a  bit.  But  I 
suppose  I'm  prejudiced;  I'm  so  new  to  it  all;  only 
it  doesn't  seem  to  me,  somehow,  as  if  he  were  that 
kind  of  a  man." 

"He  has  been  nice  to  you,  of  course,"  Eleanor 
commented.  "He  would  be,  just  yet.  And  you've 
only  seen  one  side  of  him.  But  doesn't  it  strike 
you  that  this  is  a  queer  household?  I  don't  remem- 
ber any  other;  but  I've  read  novels,  and  if  they're 
anything  like  life,  it  must  be  very  unusual  for  a 
man  to  live  with  his  family  and  never  receive  any 
sign  of  affection  from  them.  Doesn't  it  seem  to  you 
as  if  he  were  their  master  rather  than  their  father?" 

"Yes.  I  was  thinking  something  of  the  kind  this 
morning,"  Arthur  agreed.  "But  I  wondered  if 
there  weren't  faults  on  both  sides  in  a  way." 

Eleanor  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  "I  don't 
know;  it's  beyond  me,"  she  said.  "But  now  you 
know  why  I'm  going,  don't  you?  It  isn't  as  if  I 
could  help  any  of  them  by  staying.     No  one  has 


234   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

the  least  influence  with  him,  not  the  very  least.  It 
may  have  looked  as  if  you  had  helped  Hubert  about 
that  engagement.  You  did  in  one  way,  but  it  was 
all  because  he  was  trying  to  get  a  tighter  hold  of 
you.  Oh,  well!"  she  sighed,  and  half  turned  away 
from  him,  before  adding  unexpectedly,  "I'm  glad 
you're  going." 

uYou  despised  me  for  wanting  to  stay,  didn't 
you?"  he  said. 

"I  was  sorry,"  she  admitted. 

"More  than  that,  you  despised  me,"  he  insisted. 
"You  were  right,  too,  absolutely  right.  I  really 
only  saw  it  properly  when  you  said  just  now  that 
you  were  interested  in  me,  in  a  way,  before  I  came. 
And  then,  of  course,  you  were  bitterly  disappointed. 
I  can  see  all  that  now." 

She  was  looking  out  of  the  window  again,  and  the 
fact  that  he  could  not  see  her  face  gave  him  courage. 
He  came  a  little  nearer  to  her,  as  he  went  on,  "I 
haven't  any  excuse  to  offer.  None  at  all.  I  was  a 
silly,  weak  fool,  and  I  should  have  gone  on  being  a 
fool  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  But  now  I  have  come 
to  my  senses,  and  I'm  going  back  to  work,  and  it 
would  help  me  frightfully  if — when  I'm  in  Peckham 
— if  you're  ever  up  in  town — if  I  could  see  you  now 
and  again.  You've  only  seen  me  here  and  I've  been 
a  different  person  since  I've  been  here.  Would  it 
be  possible  for  me  to  see  you  ever,  after  you  go  to 
stay  with  those  people?" 

She  was  kneeling  up  on  the  window  seat  now, 
leaning  her  forehead  against  the  glass,  and  she  did 
not  move  her  position  as  she  said,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  quietly  weighs  a  proposition,  "Oh,  yes.  Why 
not?" 

"It  would  help  me  tremendously,"  he  submitted. 

She  was   silent  for   a   few  seconds  before  she 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   235 

suddenly  said  in  a  light  conversational  tone,   "It 
was  all  bosh,  of  course,  what  you  said  just  now." 

"What  was?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"All  that  about  your  being  a  weak  fool  and  my 
despising  you  for  it,"  she  said,  still  with  her  fore- 
head pressed  against  the  glass  of  the  window. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  didn't  despise  me?"  he 
asked  eagerly,  and  then  as  an  afterthought,  "But 
in  that  case  why  were  you  so  fearfully  down  on 
me?" 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  waste  your  life  here,"  she 
murmured,  "I  know  it  wasn't  any  business  of  mine, 
but  I  simply  couldn't  stand  the  thought  of  your 
becoming  one  of — them." 

He  could  not  mistake  the  implication  of  those  last 
two  sentences.  She  had  confessed  to  an  interest 
in  his  welfare  that  deeply  stirred  and  aroused  him. 
Something  of  his  humility  began  to  fall  from  him, 
his  recent  passion  of  self-condemnation  assuaged 
by  her  belief  in  the  promise  of  his  life.  And  with 
that  reaction  all  those  phases  of  his  admiration 
which  had  for  so  long  been  secretly  merging  into 
love,  were  suddenly  tinged  by  an  ecstasy  of  grati- 
tude. She  appeared  infinitely  more  to  him  at  the 
moment  than  either  friend  or  possible  lover.  She 
was  the  supreme  miracle  of  creation  embodied  in 
that  graceful  form,  outlined  against  the  window. 
The  benefactor,  the  giver,  the  maker  of  himself. 
By  her  simple  expression  of  belief  in  him,  she  had 
given  him  a  soul.  He  wanted  to  kneel  before  her 
in  adoration.  .  .  . 

Intrigued  and  a  little  embarrassed  by  his  pro- 
longed silence,  she  slipped  off  the  window  seat  and 
turned  to  him  with  the  beginning  of  a  conversational 
commonplace  that  was  checked  by  the  adoring 
intensity  of  his  gaze. 


236    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"It  must  be  nearly  .  .  ."  she  had  begun,  and  then 
stopped  and  put  her  hands  to  her  face  to  hide  the 
flood  of  colour  that  leapt  to  her  cheeks. 

And  still  he  could  not  speak.  All  the  love  and 
poetry  that  surged  within  him  could  find  no  expres- 
sion in  his  modern  phrase.  At  the  mere  thought  of 
any  gesture,  movement,  or  word,  he  was  frozen  by 
his  self-consciousness;  all  too  aware  of  himself  as 
a  product  of  his  own  time,  of  the  little  conventional 
self  that  he  had  always  presented  as  a  representa- 
tive of  the  authentic  Arthur  Woodroffe. 

And  yet  he  knew  that  this  was  his  moment,  that 
if  he  let  it  slip  he  might  never  again  find  an  oppor- 
tunity to  say  what  he  knew,  now,  was  within  him, 
and  so  he  grasped  at  an  opening,  however  conven- 
tional, in  order  to  anticipate  some  slipping  back 
into  the  everyday  manner,  on  her  part  or  his  own, 
that  might  release  the  fatuities  of  the  manikin. 

"There  is  something  I  must  say  to  you,"  he  broke 
out.  "Please  don't  interrupt  me.  It's — oh!  neces- 
sary. I  .  .  ."  He  found  that  he  could  not  lose 
himself,  standing  there  in  stark  inaction  with  her 
before  him,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
room,  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"To  begin  with,  I  must  thank  you,"  he  went  on, 
trying  not  to  think  of  himself  in  any  future  relation 
to  her.  "I  want  to  go  on  thanking  you.  I  can't 
possibly  tell  you  what  you've  done  for  me.  Every- 
thing, all  life,  is  different  now  that  I've  got  just  the 
hope  that  you  believe  in  me.  It  has  given  me  a 
hope  of — myself.  If  you  can  believe  in  me,  nothing 
can  ever  be  the  same  again.  Oh!  I  wish  I  could 
tell  you  all  that  it  has  done  for  me,  just  knowing 
you.  But  I  can't.  I  can't  say  it,  but  I  can  live  it, 
and  you  know  that  I  will.  I'm  sure  you  know  that. 
I  can  feel  it.    If  .  .  ." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   237 

He  paused  and  looked  up.  She  was  sitting  in  the 
window-seat,  her  head  bent  and  her  hands  in  her 
lap.  And  with  that  he  forgot  his  self-consciousness, 
plunged  across  the  room,  and  went  down  on  his 
knees  before  her. 

"Eleanor,"  he  said.  "Do  you  know  how  I  wor- 
ship you?" 

She  did  not  answer  him  in  words,  but  it  seemed 
as  if  by  a  series  of  infinitely  delicate  movements  they 
came  slowly  together,  until  her  hands,  with  his  own 
clasping  them,  were  on  his  breast  and  they  were 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  There  was  no  need 
then  for  them  to  say  that  they  had  loved  from  their 
first  meeting,  but  now  that  the  pressure  of  that  first 
overpowering  urgency  had  weakened,  words  came 
more  easily. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  some  time  later  that 
he  found  one  essential  explanation. 

"But  the  first  time  that  I  really  knew  how  much 
I  loved  you,"  he  said,  "was  when  I  saw  you  in 
imagination,  as  a  solemn  little  chit  of  seven  standing 
by  the  elephant's  pad  in  the  hall.  You  seemed  so 
precious  then." 


XII 


XII 

THEY  had  their  afternoon  together — free  from 
embarrassment,  for  they  constrained  them- 
selves to  conceal  their  happiness  during  the  ordeal 
of  lunch  in  order  that  they  might  enjoy  for  an  hour 
or  two  the  sacred  reserves  of  their  precious  secret. 
After  that,  as  they  well  understood,  the  family 
would  have  to  know,  and  more  than  the  fact  of  their 
engagement.  They  would  have  to  be  told,  also,  that 
Hartling  was  to  lose  two  of  its  members. 

They  debated  that  last  decision  before  they  were 
agreed.  Arthur,  still  suspicious  of  the  good  faith  of 
Miss  Kenyon  and  Charles  Turner,  was  for  post- 
poning what  he  regarded  as  the  lesser  announcement 
until  after  his  interview  with  the  old  man.  Eleanor 
saw  more  clearly. 

"They  would  never  dare  to  anticipate  us,"  she 
said.  "It  would  be  too  risky.  Haven't  you  realised 
that  they  never  interfere  with  him?  For  one  thing 
they  are  agreed  that  there  shan't  be  any  kind  of 
competition  between  them,  for  favours  and  so  on 
— which  is  awfully  wise  of  them,  if  you  come  to 
think  of  it.  And  for  another,  they  would  not  like 
to  be  the  bearer  of  bad  news  or  even  disturbing 
news.    Their  fear  of  him  goes  as  deep  as  that." 

"And  yet  he  never  loses  his  temper  with  them, 
does  he?  Or  threatens  them  in  any  way?"  Arthur 
asked. 

"He  threatens  them  all  the  time,  indirectly,"  she 
said.  "But  I've  never  seen  him  lose  his  temper. 
He  doesn't  seem  to  care  enough  for  that." 

241 


242    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

They  had  found  a  delightfully  secluded  spot  in 
the  larch  plantation  for  their  talk,  and  it  was  from 
there  that  they  saw  the  car  return  a  little  before 
five  o'clock.  By  that  time,  however,  their  plans 
were  settled.  The  fact  of  their  engagement  was  to 
be  whispered  to  some  member  of  the  family  when 
they  went  in  to  tea,  in  the  certain  hope  that  there- 
after the  news  would  instantly  spread  through  the 
household.  The  second,  and,  for  the  Kenyons,  the 
more  important  announcement  was  to  follow,  with 
the  warning  that  the  head  of  the  house  was  to  be 
told  nothing  until  the  next  morning,  when  it  should 
be  Arthur's  duty  to  inform  him. 

And  so  far  as  the  future  was  concerned  they  were 
content  to  await  the  day.  If  the  expected  explosion 
took  place,  Eleanor  was  to  go  to  the  Paynes;  she 
had  sent  her  letter  and  seemed  to  have  no  doubt 
that  they  would  receive  her.  Arthur  was  prepared 
in  any  case  to  return  to  Peckham  the  next  afternoon. 

They  rose  reluctantly  when  they  saw  the  car 
softly  running  up  the  drive.  No  caresses  had  been 
exchanged  between  them  as  yet,  but  they  had  been 
exquisitely  content  in  each  other's  company.  Arthur 
asked  for  nothing  better  than  to  sit  at  her  feet,  and 
enjoy  the  bliss  of  her  favour.  And  they  had  so 
much  to  say  that  had  so  far  been  impeded  by  the 
necessity  for  making  their  immediate  plans.  They 
wanted  to  tell  one  another  the  stories  of  their  lives. 
He  knew  more  of  her  life  than  she  knew  of  his, 
Eleanor  complained,  and  made  it  clear  that  every 
detail  of  his  youth  and  young  manhood  must  be 
told  to  her. 

Moreover,  for  those  two  hours  they  had  been 
temporarily  emancipated  from  every  restraint  of 
Hartling,  and  now  they  had  to  face  the  task  of 
finally  cutting  themselves  free.    And  Eleanor  knew 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    243 

that  that  task  would  not  be  performed  without 
effort.  Her  grandfather  would  exert  himself  to  the 
utmost  to  keep  them  both,  and  she  had  an  uneasy 
fear  that  he  might  discover  some  form  of  suasion 
which  might  appear  morally  to  bind  them.  She  had 
never  yet  seen  him  exert  himself  in  any  connection 
of  this  kind.  Until  now  he  had  always  been  so 
easily  and  so  disinterestedly  master  of  the  situation. 
She  had  been  present  when  he  had  dismissed  Ken 
Turner's  request  for  the  payment  of  his  debts,  and 
had  seen  her  grandfather  refuse  that  petition  with 
the  emotional  indifference  of  a  man  who  decided 
between  his  investments.  He  had  not  shown  a 
spark  of  temper,  and  his  refusal,  however  final,  had 
been  almost  gentle.  She  hoped  that  he  would  dis- 
play the  same  methods  on  this  occasion.  But  she 
was  afraid  that  he  might  draw  upon  some  hitherto 
untouched  reserve  of  power.  He  had  so  much  the 
air  of  a  man  with  immense  hidden  reserves. 

Also,  she  expected  a  chorus  of  remonstrance  and 
dissuasion  from  the  rest  of  the  family.  She  knew 
that  they  all,  with  the  exception  of  Miss  Kenyon, 
were  genuinely  fond  of  her — it  was  impossible  to 
picture  Miss  Kenyon  as  being  fond  of  any  one — 
and  she  guessed  that  their  pleading  might  be  hard 
to  resist.  Indeed,  if  anything  could  have  altered 
her  decision,  it  would  have  been  her  sense  of  com- 
passion for  them.  If  she  could  have  helped  them, 
she  might  have  stayed.  But  she  knew  that  her 
departure  would  make  no  real  difference  to  their 
lives.    Only  one  event  could  do  that. 

The  announcement  of  the  engagement  created 
only  a  mild  stir  in  the  Hartling  drawing-room. 
Evidently  the  thing  had  been  expected;  no  opposi- 
tion was  anticipated  in  this  instance  from  the  ruler 


244   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

of  destinies,  and  the  affair  was  amply  justified  by 
precedent.  Mrs  Turner  was  still  very  depressed, 
and  the  news  seemed  to  add  another  melancholy 
to  her  very  depressed  thoughts.  No  doubt  she  was 
reflecting  that  if  her  son  had  fallen  in  love  with  his 
Cousin  Elizabeth,  he  too  might  now  be  settling 
down  with  the  others  to  await  the  inevitable  event 
that  must  finally  determine  their  period  of  bondage. 
And  if  he  had  done  that,  the  family  would  have 
been  complete,  with  no  further  fear  of  any  intrusion 
from  the  outside. 

Hubert  gave  the  fullest  expression  to  his  con- 
gratulations. He  appeared  genuinely  pleased,  and 
went  as  far  as  suggesting  that  his  own  marriage 
and  Arthur's  might  take  place  on  the  same  day. 
And  Elizabeth  was  at  least  outwardly  complacent; 
although  Arthur  wondered  if  her  almost  incessant 
chatter,  that  afternoon,  concealed  a  faint  chagrin. 
Probably  she  would  have  married  him  if  he  had 
asked  her.  Not  because  she  was  in  love  with  him, 
but  because  he  happened  to  be  the  only  man  avail- 
able. 

Joe  Kenyon  alone  exhibited  any  signs  of  uneasi- 
ness, glancing  across  at  Arthur  more  than  once  over 
the  tea-table  with  a  look  that  conveyed  a  hint  of 
doubt  and  suspicion. 

Arthur  himself  was  far  from  confident.  He  was 
unhappily  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  was  accepting 
their  congratulations  under  false  pretences.  And 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  announce  his  further 
plans  to  the  full  company.  If  Eleanor  had  been 
present  they  might  have  dared  it  together.  But 
she  had  gone  straight  up  to  her  grandfather  after 
confiding  the  news  of  the  engagement  to  Mrs 
Kenyon,  and  had  not  come  down  again. 

It  was  inevitably  his  uncle  that  Arthur  chose  as 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING  245 

his  first  confidant.  There  was  a  certain  honesty 
and  heartiness  about  him  that  the  others  lacked, 
and  from  him  alone,  perhaps,  could  be  expected 
disinterested  encouragement  and  advice.  Moreover, 
Arthur  was  a  trifle  curious  about  that  look  of  sus- 
picion he  had  caught  on  his  uncle's  face. 

"Care  to  come  for  a  stroll  down  the  garden,"  he 
asked,  going  up  to  him  before  the  meal  was  actually 
finished. 

"Eh?  Oh!  Wait  till  I  get  a  cigar  on,"  Joe 
Kenyon  replied.    "I'd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

As  usual  all  essentials  were  deferred  until  they 
were  out  of  earshot  of  the  house,  and  then  Joe 
Kenyon  began  somewhat  abruptly  by  saying, — 

"Changed  your  mind,  I  suppose,  about  what  you 
said  to  Charles  this  morning  You  won't  be  leaving 
us  now,  I  take  it." 

"I  shall,"  Arthur  said.    "She's  coming  too." 

Joe  Kenyon  stopped  in  his  walk  and  stared  his 
surprise.  "Good  God!"  he  ejaculated  on  a  note  of 
alarm.     "Surely  you  don't  mean  it?" 

"I  do,"  Arthur  affirmed.  "That  was  what  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  about.  We  settled  it  all  be- 
tween us  this  afternoon.  It  is  quite  possible  that 
we  may  both  go  to-morrow." 

Joe  Kenyon  again  sought  refuge  in  his  "Good 
God!"  He  appeared  to  be  completely  staggered 
for  the  moment,  looked  back  at  the  house,  down 
towards  the  iron  gates,  then  threw  back  his  head 
and  gently  blew  a  thin  wreath  of  cigar  smoke  into 
the  air.  "What  you  going  to  live  on?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"I'm  going  into  partnership  with  the  man  I  was 
working  with  before  I  came  here,"  Arthur  said. 
"We  shall  have  about  five  hundred  a  year,  I  expect, 
to  begin  with." 


246    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"Is  it  possible  to  live  on  that,  in  these  days?" 
his  uncle  asked. 

"Oh,  yes!  rather.  It  isn't  much,  of  course," 
Arthur  said. 

"Both  of  you?" 

"For  a  time.  I  hope  to  make  more — in  a  year 
or  two." 

"Then  why  doesn't  Eleanor  wait  until  you've 
felt  your  feet  a  bit?" 

"She  won't.  She  wants  to  get  away  quite  as 
much  as  I  do — more,  I  think." 

"But  where's  she  going  to — to-morrow?  If  she 
goes  to-morrow?" 

"To  the  Paynes.  The  people  who  brought  her 
over  from  South  America." 

"Seem  to  have  worked  it  all  out,"  Joe  Kenyon 
commented,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "How  long  have 
you  been  making  these  plans?" 

"Only  this  afternoon."  Arthur  said.  "But  she 
had  written  to  the  Paynes  before  we — before  I  said 
anything  to  her,  you  know.  She  meant  to  go  in  any 
case." 

"The  old  man  doesn't  know  yet,  of  course,"  his 
uncle  continued. 

"Going  to  tell  him  to-morrow  morning." 

Joe  Kenyon  considered  that  thoughtfully  for  a 
few  seconds  before  he  said,  "Can't  do  anything  to 
you,  of  course.  You  may  have  a  pretty  stiff  time, 
both  of  you,  but  damn  it,  you're  free.  He's  got  no 
hold  on  you.  Can't  do  anything — except  chuck  you 
out,  which  is  all  you're  asking  for." 

"Quite,"  Arthur  agreed,  and  then  added:  "This 
won't  affect  you  in  any  way,  will  it,  uncle?" 

Joe  Kenyon  pursed  his  mouth.  "Can't  put  it 
down  to  us.  Can  he?"  he  inquired.  "You'll  make 
that  plain  enough,  between  you.    What  I  mean  is, 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    247 

this'll  be  a  knock  for  him,  worst  in  twenty-five  years, 
and  he  may  be  spiteful,  work  off  his  annoyance  on 
one  of  us  after  you've  gone,  if  there's  the  least 
excuse." 

uOh !  there  can't  be  the  least  question  of  involv- 
ing any  one  but  our  two  selves,"  Arthur  assured 
him. 

"Damn  it,  I  wish  it  hadn't  been  Eleanor,"  his 
uncle  grumbled,  adding  inconsequently,  "Pretty 
stiff  coming  the  day  after  the  other  affair.  If 
anything'll  upset  him  this  will.  He'll  put  up  a  devil 
of  a  fight  for  Eleanor.  She's  damned  useful  to  him. 
But,  Good  Lord !  what  can  he  do,  when  it  comes  to 
the  point?  If  you're  determined  to  go,  there's  the 
end  of  it.  He  can't  make  you  stay."  He  looked 
apologetically  at  Arthur  as  he  continued:  "It's 
different  for  you.  You've  got  a  profession,  pros- 
pects. None  of  us  have.  And  then  we'd  been 
Drought  up  to  it.  So  has  Hubert.  .  .  .  All  the 
same,  we'd  thought  you'd  stay.  We  shouldn't  have 
blamed  you  either  if  you  had.  Very  glad  in  a  way. 
Oh,  well!  Good  Lord;  I  don't  know.  Honestly, 
Arthur,  how  long  do  you  think  it's  possible  he  might 
hang  on?" 

Arthur  shook  his  head.  "You  can't  tell,"  he 
admitted.  "He's  as  sound  as  a  bell  physically,  and 
he  has  got  the  will  to  live.  And  so  long  as  a  man 
has  that,  you  know,  and  there's  nothing  organically 
wrong  ..." 

"Might  easily  live  another  ten  years?"  Joe 
Kenyon  said. 

"Quite  easily,"  Arthur  replied. 

He  realised  later  in  the  evening  that  in  his  con- 
versation his  uncle  had  summarised  the  family 
opinion.      Their    attitude    towards    himself    was 


248   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

marked  by  that  same  discretion  which  had  charac- 
terised it  immediately  before  his  championship  of 
Hubert.  They  were  afraid  of  the  least  appearance 
of  complicity;  and  avoided  too  direct  a  reference 
to  the  subject  that  must  have  been  uppermost  in 
their  thoughts.  Turner's  casual,  "Hear  you're 
going  to  take  up  your  work  .again.  Pretty  dull  for 
you  down  here,  I  suppose,  without  any  settled 
employment,"  was  a  mere  acknowledgment  of  the 
fact,  and  manifestly  deprecated  any  further  elabora- 
tion of  the  topic.  And  Hubert  contented  himself 
with  spasms  of  melancholy  gazing,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  intimate  as  tactfully  and  safely  as  possible 
his  personal  sorrow  and  regret.  Miss  Kenyon  was 
more  nearly  affable  than  Arthur  had  ever  known 
her  to  be,  and  talked  to  him  at  dinner  about  his 
profession  with  every  sign  of  interest. 

The  meal  had  an  unprecedented  air  of  informal- 
ity that  night  owing  to  the  absence  of  the  head  of 
the  house,  who  dined  in  his  own  room.  Eleanor, 
also,  was  absent  from  the  table — to  Arthur's  great 
disappointment.  He  hoped  to  have  another  talk 
with  her  before  his  interview  with  the  old  man, 
and  had  fully  expected  to  see  her  in  the  dining-room 
and  be  able  to  make  some  appointment  with  her 
afterwards. 

About  half-past  nine,  however,  this  particular 
anxiety  was  relieved,  if  none  too  satisfactorily,  by 
a  note  that  was  brought  down  to  him  by  one  of 
the  maids.  uNo  hope  this  evening,"  Eleanor  had 
written,  "but  I  will  see  you  upstairs  before  you  go 
in  to  him  to-morrow.  Come  up  at  half-past  ten. 
I  have  told  him  about  our  engagement  and  he 
seemed  to  be  pleased — chiefly,  I  think,  because  he 
believes  it  will  give  him  a  greater  hold  over  you. 
It's  rather  awful,  somehow.     I'm  not  a  bit  happy 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   249 

about  your  seeing  him.  I'm  afraid  of  some- 
thing, though  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what.  Sleep 
well." 

Arthur  cherished  that  little  letter  for  its  first 
sentence.  "No  hope  this  evening"  thrilled  him  by 
its  sweet  familiarity  and  its  quiet  acceptance  of  the 
fact  that  they  wanted  to  be  together.  It  said  so 
much  more  than  any  sterotyped  term  of  endear- 
ment. Her  final  note  of  foreboding  did  not  disturb 
him.  He  had  no  fear  for  the  future,  since  the  only 
future  he  saw  was  life  with  Eleanor.  He  had  begun 
to  plan  the  possibility  of  a  small  flat  somewhere, 
if  one  could  be  found.  There  was  no  reason  why 
they  should  not  be  married  quite  soon. 

He  looked  up  to  find  the  eye  of  little  Turner 
fixed  upon  him  with  a  half-whimsical  smile. 

"What  about  a  last  game?"  he  asked,  making  a 
daring  reference  to  the  forbidden  topic. 

"Rather,"  Arthur  agreed  cheerfully. 

"I'll  come  and  mark,"  Hubert  volunteered  in 
much  the  tone  he  might  have  used  if  he  had  been 
offering  his  services  as  chief  mourner. 

Arthur  found  no  difficulty  in  following  Eleanor's 
advice  to  sleep  well.  He  lay  awake  for  half  an  hour 
or  so  thinking  of  her,  but  after  that  he  slept  soundly 
and  his  sleep  was  undisturbed.  He  did  not  even 
remember  his  dreams  when  he  woke.  And  he  had 
no  sinking  of  the  heart,  no  sick  qualms  of  antici- 
pation the  following  morning.  His  waking  thoughts 
were  all  of  Eleanor,  the  incident  of  the  necessary 
interview  with  old  Kenyon  appeared  to  him  as  no 
more  than  one  of  the  many  necessary  steps  that  he 
must  take  before  he  could  enter  the  Paradise  of  his 
life  with  her.  He  was,  for  the  time  being,  obsessed 
with  a  single  idea,  and  his  one  annoyance  was  the 


250   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

fact  that  two  and  a  half  hours  must  elapse  before 
he  would  see  her  again. 

His  uncle  misread  his  evident  abstraction  when 
they  met  in  the  library  after  breakfast. 

uWorried,  Arthur?"  he  asked  in  a  confidential 
voice  behind  the  shield  of  the  Times,  although 
there  was  no  one  in  the  room  just  then  but  himself 
and  his  nephew. 

"Worried?  Lord,  no,"  Arthur  replied  frankly. 
"Quite  the  contrary." 

"All  right  for  you,  my  boy,  but  you'll  have  a  rare 
trouble  to  make  him  give  up  Eleanor,"  his  uncle 
said. 

"He  can't  keep  her  if  she  wants  to  go,"  Arthur 
returned,  but  Joe  Kenyon  refused  to  commit  him- 
self any  further. 

"Oh,  well!     Wait  and  see,"  he  said. 

Arthur's  peace  of  mind  was  in  no  way  disturbed 
by  that  hint  of  the  possible  difficulties  ahead  of  him. 
His  uncle's  warning  seemed  to  him  nothing  more 
than  a  symptom  of  the  characteristic  Kenyon  weak- 
ness. They  were  timid,  apprehensive  creatures, 
sapped  and  enfeebled  by  their  life  of  comfort  and 
seclusion. 

He  was,  however,  suddenly  startled  into  doubt 
by  Eleanor's  reception  of  him  in  the  little  ante- 
room. He  had  expected  to  find  her  as  confident 
and  self-reliant  as  he  was  himself.  He  had  hoped 
that  their  half-hour's  talk  would  be  all  of  their  own 
delightful  future.  He  found  her  anxious,  trembling, 
on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  when  Arthur  came  in.  "I 
want  to  talk  to  you  first.  It's  quite  safe.  He's  in 
the  office,  and  in  any  case  you  can't  hear  what's  said 
from  the  next  room." 

But  after  he  had  obeyed  her,  she  could  not  come 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING  251 

at  once  to  what  she  had  to  say.  She  turned  her 
back  on  him  and  began  to  arrange  some  papers  on 
a  side  table,  standing,  he  thought,  less  erectly  than 
she  usually  stood.  And  when  she  faced  him,  there 
was  in  her  expression  the  reluctance  of  one  who 
has  to  admit  defeat. 

"Do  you  think,  after  all,  that  we  had  better  go?" 
she  asked. 

He  was  too  astonished  to  reply  directly.  He  got 
up  and  took  a  step  towards  her.  "Why?  What's 
the  matter?"  he  said. 

She  backed  away  from  him  and  held  up  her 
hands,  as  if  to  defend  herself. 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  go — 
alone,"  she  said. 

"Go  alone?"  he  repeated  in  a  voice  of  such  dis- 
may that  any  repetition  of  that  suggestion  would 
have  been  ridiculous. 

"Very  well,"  she  continued,  soothing  him  with  a 
faint  smile.  "If  that's  quite  out  of  the  question, 
is  it  possible  that  we  might  both  stay?" 

"Indefinitely?" 
>     "Or  for  a  time." 

"Like  the  rest  of  them?  Isn't  that  how  they  all 
began?"  he  asked. 

She  sighed  and  clasped  her  hands  together.  "Oh, 
Arthur,  I'm  afraid,"  she  confessed.  "I  don't  know 
what  I'm  afraid  of.  It  isn't  of  him  or  of  anything 
he  can  do  to  us.  I've  been  arguing  with  myself,  but 
it's  no  good.  It  just  comes  down  to  the  one  fact 
that  I'm  afraid." 

Almost  instinctively  Arthur  put  out  his  hand  and 
laid  a  finger  on  her  pulse.  "Since  when  have  you 
been  afraid?"  he  asked  her. 

"Ever  since  he  came  in  yesterday,"  she  told  him. 
"He  was  just  as  usual,  not  overtired  as  far  as  I 


252    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

could  see,  or  put  out,  or  anything.  But  directly  I 
began  to  talk  to  him  this  queer  feeling  of  fear  came 
over  me.  It  was  .  .  .  Arthur,  it  was  just  as  if  I 
knew  something  terrible  was  going  to  happen." 
She  slipped  her  pulse  from  his  fingers,  thrust  her 
hand  into  his,  and  clung  to  it  tightly  as  she  con- 
tinued, "And  I've  been  thinking  that  perhaps  I  may 
have  been  wrong  about  him.  I  don't  believe  I  slept 
an  hour  last  night.  I  kept  going  over  it  all  again 
and  again  until  I  nearly  persuaded  myself  that  he 
had  always  meant  well — underneath.  And  if  he 
has,  and  I  desert  him  now,  and  the  shock  of  it  made 
him  ill — it  might,  mightn't  it? — I  should  feel  so 
awful  about  it.  Oh!  what  do  you  think  we  ought 
to  do  ?  You  know  we  might  be — be  married — here 
— and  go  on  much  as  we  have  been — with  that 
difference." 

For  a  moment  Arthur  was  tempted,  realising  in 
his  own  feelings  something  of  what  the  other  dwell- 
ers in  the  house  must  have  gone  through  before 
they  descended  to  their  present  level  of  fatalistic 
acceptance.  And  if  he  had  not  been  so  deeply  in 
love  with  Eleanor  he  would  almost  certainly  have 
yielded  as  the  others  had  done  before  him.  He  was 
saved  by  the  memory  of  his  own  abasement  the 
previous  morning.  He  had  known  then  that  he 
could  never  be  worthy  of  her  so  long  as  he  was  too 
inert  to  face  the  struggle  of  life. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  close 
to  him — the  first  caress  he  had  dared.  "No,"  he 
said.  "Quite  definitely  no !  I  should  hate  myself 
if  we  did  that.  You  have  cured  me  of  the  least 
wish  to  slack  my  life  away.  I  shouldn't  be  good 
enough  for  you,  if  I  did.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that 
I'm  good  enough  in  any  case,  but  I  shall  try  to 
be.  .  .  ."    He  paused,  and  with  the  lingering  fond- 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING  253 

ness  of  one  who  murmurs  the  tenderest  of  all  en- 
dearments, added  softly,  "Eleanor."  ^ 

Her  only  answer  was  to  press  a  little  nearer  to 
him,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  now  leaning  upon  his 
strength;  she  who  had  given  him  that  strength  in 
the  first  instance. 

"It  was  you  who  made  me  see  everything  so 
clearly,  yesterday,"  he  went  on.  "I  saw  myself  as 
I  was,  a  detestable  parasite.  I  could  have  hated 
myself  for  daring  to  love  you.  And  whatever  hap- 
pens, I  could  not  face  that  feeling  again.  It  has 
gone  absolutely.  I  don't  believe  I  should  ever  have 
had  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  influences  and  temp- 
tations of  this  place.  It  undermines  one's  will — 
though  it  has  never  undermined  yours." 

She  hid  her  face.  "It  has,  it  has,"  she  whispered. 
"I  didn't  know  it  until  last  night.  I  thought  I  was 
strong." 

He  was  seized  with  a  momentary  panic.  "You 
mean  that  you're  afraid  to  face  life  with  me  on  five 
hundred  a  year?"  he  asked. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  smiled  at  him.  "I'd  face 
life  with  you  on  a  hundred  a  year,  cheerfully,"  she 
said.     "It  isn't  that." 

He  was  infinitely  relieved  by  that  assurance,  for 
he  had  had  a  glimpse  of  a  condition  that  might 
still  defeat  him.  If  she  had  been  afraid  of  the  life 
he  had  had  to  offer  her,  he  might  have  been  forced 
to  compromise.  "What  is  it,  then?"  he  asked  ten- 
derly. 

"My  grandfather,"  she  said.  "He — he  paralyses 
my  will,  I  think.  I  can  feel  his  power  over  me  here, 
this  very  minute.  I'm  afraid  of  him  now  that  I'm 
going  to  oppose  him,  just  as  they  are  all  afraid  of 
him.  It's  like  the  fear  one  has  in  a  dream,  the  fear 
of  something  with   an  unearthly  power  that  you 


254   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

can't  escape  from — something — something  evil.  I 
— do  you  know  I  meant  to  tell  him  last  night,  that 
I — that  we  were  going?  And  I  couldn't.  He  was 
sitting  there  perfectly  quiet  and  good-tempered — 
we  were  having  dinner  together — and  I  thought, 
why  shouldn't  I  break  it  to  him — at  once — about 
us?  But  as  soon  as  that  idea  came  into  my  mind 
I  began  to  tremble.  It  was  like — oh !  like  having  to 
plunge  your  hand  down  into  some  horrible  dark 
hole,  not  knowing  what  ghastly  unclean  thing  you 
might  find  there.  And  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  couldn't, 
I  couldn't."  ' 

Her  voice  had  risen  to  a  slightly  hysterical  note 
as  she  concluded,  and  he  held  her  to  him  and  gently 
fondled  and  soothed  her  as  he  said  reassuringly, 
"It's  only  because  he  has  been  your  employer  and 
master  all  these  years.  And  in  any  case  he  has  no 
power  over  me.  I  have  never  been  the  least  afraid 
of  him." 

"Oh,  Arthur !  you're  strong,"  she  murmured,  and 
then  recovered  herself  almost  as  quickly  as  she  had 
given  way.  "I'm  a  fool,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden 
effect  of  briskness,  drawing  herself  away  from  him, 
and  putting  her  hands  up  to  her  hair.  "However, 
you  know  now  the  sort  of  hysterical  creature  you'll 
have  to  put  up  with." 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said,  with  a  fond  smile.  "You 
were  almost  too  wonderful  before.  I  don't  believe 
I  should  be  afraid  to  kiss  you  now." 

She  blushed  and  turned  away.  "I  suppose  you 
know  that  it's  ten  minutes  past  eleven,"  she  said, 
and  added  with  a  sudden  return  of  agitation,  "Oh! 
go — at  once.  And  get  it  over."  Then  as  though 
she  doubted  her  own  powers  of  resolution,  she  went 
quickly  over  to  the  door  of  her  grandfather's  room 
and  opened  it. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   255 

"Can  you  see  Arthur  now?  He's  here,"  she  said 
coldly;  and  having  received  her  reply  she  looked  at 
Arthur  and  formally  beckoned  him  to  go  in.  But 
as  he  passed  her  in  the  doorway  she  momentarily 
clasped  his  arm  with  her  two  hands  as  if  she  were 
loath,  even  now,  to  let  him  go. 

Yet,  despite  all  this  ominous  introduction,  it  was 
pity  and  not  fear  that  Arthur  felt  as  he  sat  down 
by  the  old  man,  who  had,  so  mysteriously  it  seemed, 
terrified  his  own  family.  He  looked  even  less  in- 
timidating than  usual  this  morning.  He  was  ob- 
viously pleased  by  the  news  of  the  engagement,  and 
his  first  words  were  almost  roguish. 

"Well,  well,  Arthur:  I  mustn't  keep  you  long  to- 
day," he  said.  "And  I  suppose,  after  this,  that  I 
shall  have  to  reconcile  myself  to  seeing  rather  less 
of  Eleanor.  However  .  .  ."  He  completed  his 
sentence  with  a  gesture  of  his  delicate,  shrivelled 
hand. 

Arthur  knew  the  inference  that  he  was  expected 
to  draw :  in  a  few  months — a  year  or  two,  at  longest 
— all  these  little  cares  and  troubles  would  have 
ceased  for  ever.  And  it  crossed  his  mind  that  he 
might  open  his  extraordinarily  difficult  announce- 
ment by  some  well-considered  professional  assur- 
ance that  his  patient  might  quite  conceivably  live 
another  ten  or  fifteen  years.  He  rejected  that  as 
being  clumsy  and  tactless — although  every  form  of 
approach  seemed  to  him,  just  then,  to  be  either 
clumsy  or  cruel.  And  it  was  in  desperation,  alarmed 
by  the  growing  significance  of  his  own  silence,  that 
he  at  last  said, — 

"Yes,  sir,  I'm  afraid  you'll  miss  her — rather — 
at  first." 

The  old  man  appeared  to  be  unaware  that  this 
sentence  held  any  unusual  suggestion.     "Have  you 


256    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

had  it  in  your  mind  that  you  might  be  married  quite 
soon?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  so,  sir;  yes,  quite  soon,"  Arthur  replied, 
and  then  frowning  and  keeping  his  eyes  averted 
from  the  old  man's  face — he  went  on  quickly.  "As 
soon  as  ever  we  can  find  somewhere  to  live,  in  fact. 
Flats  and  so  on  are  fearfully  difficult  to  get  just 
now.  And  in  Peckham,  where  I  shall  be  practis- 
ing  .  .  . 

He  paused  and  looked  up.  The  old  man  had 
changed  neither  his  position  nor  his  expression. 
"But  I  know  of  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  be 
married  while  you  are  still  here,"  he  said,  ap- 
parently missing  all  the  implications  of  Arthur's 
speech. 

"We — we  thought  of  leaving  here — at  once,"  he 
replied,  making  an  effort  that  even  as  he  made  it 
seemed  gross  and  brutal.  "In  fact  I  meant — that 
is,  I'm  leaving  to-day." 

Mr  Kenyon's  keen  blue  eyes  slowly  concentrated 
their  gaze  with  an  effect  of  extraordinary  attention 
on  Arthur's  face;  and  as  they  did  so,  their  lids, 
which  commonly  drooped  so  that  the  iris  was  partly 
hidden,  were  lifted  until  the  pupils,  completely 
ringed  by  white,  stared  with  the  cold,  intense  watch- 
fulness of  a  great  bird. 

"But  that's  impossible,"  he  said  very  quietly. 

And  indeed  it  seemed  to  Arthur  quite  impossible 
at  that  moment  to  give  any  reason  for  his  going  at 
such  foolishly  short  notice.  Downstairs,  or  talking 
to  Eleanor,  the  situation  appeared  so  entirely  dif- 
ferent. Then,  this  quiet  old  man,  with  his  deliber- 
ate movements,  took  the  shape  of  a  tyrant,  cruel, 
and  malignant.  Here,  in  this  room,  he  was  a  stately 
old  gentleman,  naturally  affronted  by  what  was  al- 
most an  insult. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING   257 

Arthur  blushed  vividly.  "You  see,  sir/'  he 
blurted  out,  with  the  gaucheness  of  a  peccant  school- 
boy, "I  feel  rather — as  if — if  I  were  wasting  my 
time  here — in  a  way.  I  don't  really  want  to  be  un- 
grateful, you  know,  although  I  suppose  it  must  seem 
like  it,  but — I'd  be  awfully  glad  if  you  could  see 
your  way  to  letting  me  off." 

"And  your  promise?"  Mr  Kenyon  asked,  still  in 
the  same  cool,  formal  voice.  "Does  that  count 
for  nothing  with  you?" 

"I'm  sorry,  sir.  I  feel  that  I  can't  stay,"  Arthur 
looked  down  again  as  he  spoke.  He  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  meet  the  stare  of  those  fierce  hunting  eyes. 

"You  realise,  of  course,"  Mr  Kenyon  continued, 
"that  this  will  put  an  end  to  your  engagement?  I 
could  not  spare  Eleanor." 

"She — she  wants  to  go  too,  sir,"  Arthur  said. 

"But  she  can't,"  Mr  Kenyon  replied,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  who  pronounces  an  unimpeachable  judg- 
ment. "If  you  go,  Arthur,  you  will  go  alone." 
Then,  with  a  change  of  voice,  he  went  on,  "But 
you  will  alter  your  mind  about  this,  I  am  sure. 
When  you  come  to  think  it  over,  you  will  realise,  I 
hope,  how  dishonourable  it  would  be  for  you  to 
leave  me,  after  the  bargain  we  made  and  the  pro- 
mise you  gave  me.  In  any  case,  take  a  week  to 
think  it  all  over.    Take  a  month  if  you  like." 

Arthur  sat  in  silence  for  what  seemed  to  him  a 
considerable  time  after  the  old  man  had  finished 
speaking.  He  was  thinking  of  the  rest  of  the  Ken- 
yons  downstairs.  He  had  blamed  them  many  times 
for  their  weakness,  but  he  understood  now  how 
nearly  impossible  it  must  have  been  for  them  to 
have  done  anything  but  wait,  postponing  any  de- 
cision from  month  to  month.  He  himself,  with  all 
their  experience  behind  him,  was  faltering;  though 


258   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

surely  he  could  not  be  mistaken  now  in  assuming 
that  all  this  effect  of  persuasion  was  nothing  more 
than  a  method.  When  he  was  bound — fairly  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  the  net — he  would  become  as  all 
the  others  had  become,  an  object  of  indifference, 
subject  now  and  again  to  subtle  forms  of  intimida- 
tion, but  never  to  any  form  of  affection.  In  ten 
years,  he  would  become  like  them,  and  Elea- 
nor. .  .  . 

uNo,"  he  said,  with  sudden  determination,  jump- 
ing to  his  feet  and  almost  forgetting  the  person  of 
the  old  man  in  front  of  him.  "No!  I'm  going  to- 
day, and  Eleanor  goes  with  me.  You  have  no 
power  to  keep  her,  no  sort  of  authority  over  her. 
We  have  made  up  our  minds." 

He  had  taken  a  couple  of  steps  up  the  room  as 
he  spoke,  and  as  he  concluded  he  turned  and  faced 
his  antagonist,  prepared  for  an  outburst,  for  some 
tremendous  call  upon  those  immense  reserves  of 
personality  that  had  hitherto  been  hidden  from  him. 

But  Mr  Kenyon  was  still  sitting  quietly  in  his 
chair,  his  hands  resting  on  the  arms,  and  the  wide- 
open  eyes  that  had  recently  gazed  with  such  furious 
attention  at  Arthur  were  now  fixed  unseeingly  upon 
the  opposite  wall.  He  was  in  one  of  his  "trances," 
the  dreaming  god  calm,  powerful,  detached,  above 
all  unapproachable,  existing  in  his  own  world  re- 
mote from  all  opposition  and  argument. 

Arthur,  tensely  braced  for  an  encounter,  found 
himself  surprisingly  without  a  purchase.  The  in- 
fluence of  habit  made  him  pause,  he  stood  stock 
still,  waiting  tensely  for  the  first  signs  of  the  old 
man's  return  to  consciousness.  But  as  the  minutes 
passed  his  professional  curiosity  was  aroused.  He 
had  never  before  had  an  opportunity  to  observe 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING  259 

one  of  these  "trances"  at  close  quarters,  and  he 
quietly  approached  the  dreamer,  looked  keenly  at 
him,  and  began  to  pass  his  hand  slowly  up  and  down 
before  the  staring  eyes. 

And  then  in  a  moment,  in  one  amazing  flash  of 
enlightenment,  the  truth  was  made  clear  to  him. 
These  "trances"  were  nothing  more  than  a  pose,  a 
deliberate  well-practised  piece  of  acting,  brilliant 
enough  to  stand  any  test  except  this  cool,  profes- 
sional observation.  For  it  was  clear  enough  to* 
Arthur  that  the  old  man  before  him  was  making 
an  effort  to  keep  his  gaze  fixed  on  some  object 
beyond  the  interference  of  that  deliberate  testing 
hand.  And  that  the  effort  became  increasingly  diffi- 
cult to  maintain.  The  effect  of  rapt  contemplation 
began  to  break.  The  old  withered  face  suddenly 
puckered  into  an  expression  of  fierce  indignation, 
his  hands  first  trembled,  and  then  gripped  the  arms 
of  his  chair,  and  his  eyes  turned  upon  Arthur  with 
a  look  of  desperate  malignity. 

He  was  roused  at  last  from  his  indifference.  He 
was  obviously  shaking  with  rage.  And,  amazingly, 
he  was  impotent.  The  effect  of  calm  power  was 
stripped  from  him.  He  was  nothing  more  than  a 
pitiable  old  man  in  a  furious,  senile  temper.  He 
tried  to  speak  and  could  only  splutter.  He  grasped 
the  stick  that  lay  always  ready  to  his  hand,  and 
had  not  the  strength  to  strike  more  than  the  feeblest 
blow  with  it.  Arthur  did  not  even  wince  as  that 
futile  stroke  fell  upon  his  shoulders. 

"G-get  away — get  away,"  the  old  man  stut- 
tered. "Get  out  of  my  house.  ,  .  ."  With  a  great 
effort  he  raised  himself  from  his  chair,  his  face 
working,  his  knees  trembling.  Again  he  lifted  his 
stick  and  feebly  struck  with  it  at  Arthur.    Then  his 


26o   THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

knees  gave  way,  and  he  crumpled  pitifully,  collaps- 
ing like  a  broken  doll  without  making  the  least 
effort  to  save  himself. 

Arthur  bent  over  him,  lifted  him,  laid  him  out 
on  his  back,  and  rapidly  unfastened  his  collar.  .  .  . 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  get  him  to  bed. 
He  knew  that  perfectly  well.  But  first  he  must 
have  help.  He  jumped  up  and  flung  open  the  door 
into  the  ante-room. 

"Eleanor,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  he  found  diffi- 
cult to  control,  "he  has  had  a  stroke.  Send  some 
one  at  once  in  the  car  for  Fergusson.  If  he's  not 
at  the  surgery  they  must  go  after  him;  find  him 
somehow." 

Clear  and  suddenly  familiar  in  his  mind,  as  if  it 
were  a  tune  that  he  had  been  trying  to  recall,  was 
a  sentence  that  he  had  spoken  to  Hubert  a  few  days 
earlier : — 

"It  might  break  him  down  if  he  were  badly 
crossed,"  he  had  said. 


XIII 


XIII 

THE  gates  were  standing  open.  They  may  have 
been  opened  in  expectation  of  the  coming  of 
the  specialist  who  might  arrive  at  any  minute,  but 
even  the  garden  wore  a  new  aspect  that  morning. 
It  was  as  if  the  wide  airs  of  Sussex  were  creeping 
in  and  subtly  perverting  the  seemly  splendour  of 
that  suburban  super-garden. 

Old  Kenyon  had  been  unconscious  for  twenty- 
four  hours.  Both  Arthur  and  Fergusson  knew  with 
almost  absolute  certainty  what  was  the  matter  with 
him.  A  cerebral  artery  had  been  ruptured  and  the 
area  of  damaged  tissue  appeared  to  be  slowly  ex- 
tending. No  remedy  was  possible.  The  chances 
were  that  within  another  twenty-four  hours  he 
would  die  without  recovering  consciousness.  But 
he  had  trained  nurses  in  constant  attendance  and  a 
specialist  had  been  sent  for.  Scurr  had  gone  with 
Fergusson  to  fetch  him  in  the  big  car. 

Arthur  had  been  up  with  the  unconscious  man  all 
night,  and  had  come  out  into  the  garden  now  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.  When  he  came  downstairs  he 
had  found  himself  a  centre  of  burning  interest. 
All  the  family,  except  the  one  he  most  wanted  to  be 
with,  were  drawn  towards  him  as  if  he  were  the 
newly  found  vortex  of  a  whirlpool.  They  tried 
desperately  hard  to  be  casual  and  decorous,  but  they 
found  it  impossible  to  keep  their  eyes  off  him.  It 
seemed  to  Arthur  that  they  almost  gaped. 

They  were  all  extraordinarily  wide-awake  and 
feverishly  inactive.     The  women's  fancy-work  had 

263 


264  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

not  been  taken  out,  nor  the  daily  papers  opened. 
The  news  they  desired  to  learn  that  morning  was 
not  to  be  found  in  the  Times,  They  drifted  about 
the  drawing-room  and  library,  and  held  brief,  use- 
less conversations  with  one  another.  But  when 
Arthur  had  passed  through  the  suite  a  little  after 
eleven  o'clock  looking  for  Eleanor,  they  had  sud- 
denly found  a  focus.  He  had  seen  the  look  of  ex- 
pectancy on  their  faces  and  had  thrown  them  a 
crumb  of  news. 

"He  is  still  unconscious, "  he  had  said,  and  had 
understood  that  they  asked  more  from  him  than 
that.  Then,  feeling  that  he  could  not  endure  the 
greediness  of  their  attention,  he  had  beckoned  Joe 
Kenyon  to  come  out  with  him  into  the  garden. 

They  had  come  within  sight  of  the  open  gates 
before  either  of  them  spoke. 

uNo  hope,  I  suppose?"  his  uncle  said  then,  as  if 
released  by  the  sight  of  the  Sussex  lane. 

"I  should  say  absolutely  none,"  Arthur  replied. 

"Not  likely  to  recover  consciousness  before  the 
end?" 

"Extremely  unlikely,"  Arthur  said.  "In  fact, 
scarcely  possible,  I  think." 

Joe  Kenyon  began  to  whistle  softly  between  his 
teeth  and  abruptly  checked  himself.  "If  this  pro- 
perty comes  to  me,  I  shall  have  that  blasted  wall 
taken  down,"  he  remarked,  and  continued,  "You 
know,  Arthur,  I'm  not  going  to  play  the  hypocrite, 
especially  to  you.  This  isn't  an  occasion  for  mourn- 
ing. It's  as  if  we'd  been  living  in  the  dark  for  half 
a  liftime  and  some  one  had  taken  the  roof  off  and 
let  the  air  and  light  in.  I — I  feel  as  if  I  can  see 
the  sky  again  for  the  first  time  in  thirty  years.  It'd 
be  loathsome,  crawling  hypocrisy  to  pretend  that 
I'm  the  least  sorry." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTL1NG  265 

"Oh,  obviously,"  Arthur  agreed. 

"But  I  say,  how  did  it  happen?"  his  uncle  asked. 
"We  haven't  the  shakiest  notion  you  know — ■ 
and  .  .  ." 

"I  just  murdered  him,"  Arthur  said  quietly. 

"Eh!     What's  that?"  Joe  Kenyon  ejaculated. 

"For  all  intents  and  purposes,"  Arthur  explained. 
"I  opposed  him,  and  he  tried  to  take  cover — went 
into  one  of  his  'trances.'  Did  you  know  they 
weren't  trances,  by  the  way?" 

"No.    What  the  devil  were  they,  then?" 

"Pretences,  pieces  of  acting,  fantasies  of  his  own 
making.  He  used  to  hide  himself  in  them,  as  it 
were.  Dream  what  a  great  and  powerful  being  he 
was,  able  to  keep  you  all  in  attendance,  keep  you 
waiting  for  ten  minutes  in  the  middle  of  dinner 
if  he  liked,  while  he  enjoyed  the  sense  of  holding 
you  there.  And  when  he  was  in  danger  of  losing 
his  temper  with  me,  he  tried  to  get  under  that  cover, 
to  shelter  himself,  rehabilitate  his  own  pride." 

"And  you?     What  did  you  do?" 

"Treated  him  as  if  he  were  a  case  in  a  clinic. 
Began  to  test  his  reactions.  And — and — well,  he 
couldn't  keep  it  up." 

"And  then?" 

"Couldn't  control  himself.  Lost  his  temper — 
frightfully.  Whacked  at  me  with  his  stick — and 
collapsed.  It  was  losing  his  temper  did  it — first 
time  he  has  done  it  probably  for  forty  years.  Had 
you  ever  seen  him  lose  his  temper?" 

Joe  Kenyon  considered  that  question  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  before  he  said,  "No !  That  was  some- 
thing he  always  had  in  reserve,  something  we  were 
afraid  of.  He  was  always  terrible  to  us,  in  a  way, 
and  we  felt  that  if  he  went  one  step  further  he'd 
be — oh!  devastating." 


266  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

"He  wasn't,  you  know,"  Arthur  said.  "He 
wasn't  terrible,  I  mean.  Not  in  the  least.  He  was 
essentially  a  weak  man  and  not  even  clever.  I  sat 
up  with  him  all  last  night,  and  everything  came  to 
me  as  clearly  as  if  I'd  read  it  somewhere.  He  has 
altered,  you  see,  in  face  and  expression  since  he  be- 
came unconscious.  His  chin  seems  to  have  retreated 
and  all  the  lines  round  his  mouth  have  changed. 
I  couldn't  keep  the  idea  of  a  rat  out  of  my  mind 
when  I  looked  at  him.  I  got  that  effect  somehow — 
something  horribly  intent  and  voracious  but  essen- 
tially weak.  I  remember  looking  at  a  dead  rat  in 
the  stables  when  I  was  a  boy.  It  was  lying  on  its 
back  with  its  feeble  little  front  paws  stuck  up  and 
the  feet  dangling.  .  .  .  And  he  had  just  the  same 
expression  on  his  face — ineffectual  and  yet  cruel — 
as  if  his  one  regret  was  that  he  couldn't  hurt  any 
one  again.  I  was  almost  sorry  that  he  couldn't 
— especially  as  I  had  murdered  him." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Arthur;  nonsense,"  his  uncle  in- 
terposed.    "Don't  say  that." 

"True,  though,  in  a  way,  isn't  it?"  Arthur  said. 
"Truer  than  you  guess,  because  I  had  known  that 
it  might  kill  him  if  he  had  a  great  shock.  I'd  even 
said  so  to  Hubert,  a  few  days  ago — Sunday,  I 
think  it  was.  But  I'd  forgotten  it.  When  I  was 
telling  him  that  I  meant  to  go  and  take  Eleanor 
with  me  whatever  he  did,  I  never  once  considered 
that  it  might  be  too  much  for  him.  And  that  was 
criminal  carelessness  in  a  medical  man.  I've  been 
thinking  about  it  more  or  less  ever  since." 

He  paused  and  looked  ahead  of  him,  out  through 
the  gate  into  the  Sussex  lane,  and  it  was  manifest 
that  he  was  confessing  to  himself  rather  than  to 
Joe  Kenyon  as  he  continued:  "Not  that  I  propose 
to   take   any  responsibility   for  his   death.     That 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   267 

wouldn't  help  any  one.  It  happened  so,  and  I  shan't 
forget  it,  but  that's  all.  Fergusson  knows.  There's 
no  need  to  worry  about  it.  Only — I've  grown  up. 
I'm  not  quite  the  same  man  I  was  twenty-four  hours 
ago.  I  came  down  here  to  get  back  some  of  the 
years  of  youth  that  I'd  lost  in  the  war.  Well, 
they're  gone  for  good  and  all.  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  recover  them  now." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  his  uncle  repeated,  taking  his 
arm.  "You've  got  a  thundering  good  time  ahead 
of  you." 

Arthur  smiled.  "I've  got  the  best  time  any  man 
could  have  ahead  of  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  shall  en- 
joy it  as  a  man,  not  as  a  boy.  I  didn't  say  that  I 
regretted  the  passing  of  my  youth,  uncle." 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,"  Joe  Kenyon  agreed. 
"And  look  here,  old  boy,  we've  been  talking  about 
you  since  yesterday  morning,  about  you  and  Elea- 
nor, that  is;  and  Turner  and  I — and  Hubert,  of 
course — are  quite  agreed  that  if  the  old  man  has, 
after  all,  overlooked  you  in  his  will,  that  we  shall 
take  it  for  granted  that  it  was  just  an  oversight — 
though  probably  Eleanor  will  be  left  pretty  well 
off.     If  he  had  a  favourite,  it  was  Eleanor." 

"Good  of  you,  uncle,"  Arthur  replied  warmly. 
"Awfully  good  and  generous  of  you,  but  you  must 
see  that  I  couldn't  take  a  farthing,  even  if  the  old 
man  left  it  to  me." 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  Joe  Kenyon  began,  but 
Arthur  stopped  him  by  saying. 

"No!  Absolutely!  In  no  circumstances  what- 
ever! It  isn't  simply  that  I  could  not  bear  to  profit 
now  by  his  death — though  that  counts.  But — well 
— perhaps  it  needn't  apply  to  you  and  the  rest  of 
them — but  last  night,  while  I  was  watching  that 
poor  thing  on  the  bed,  I  realised  so  profoundly  that 


268    THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

his  one  source  of  power  had  been  his  money.  I 
assure  you  that  he  was  a  weak  man  and  not  clever. 
If  you  can't  believe  me,  go  upstairs  and  look  at  him. 
And  without  his  money  he  would  have  had  no 
authority,  no  power  over  you  of  any  sort.  It  was 
just  his  money  that  gave  him  the  chance  to  spoil  all 
your  lives.  Oh,  Lord!  I'm  talking  like  a  father 
to  you.  Honestly,  uncle,  I  feel  nearly  old  enough 
for  that,  this  morning.  Want  of  sleep,  perhaps. 
It  does  clear  the  head  in  a  queer  way  sometimes." 

"Hm!  I  dare  say  you're  right,  Arthur,  about 
the  money,"  Joe  Kenyon  mumbled.  "I — I  hope  we 
shall  make  a  better  use  of  it.  I  don't  think  any  of 
us  has  got  the  old  man's  cruelty — he  was  damned 
cruel,  that's  true  enough." 

"Not  even  Miss  Kenyon?"  Arthur  put  in. 

"Esther?  Oh,  well!  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  a 
little.  But  she  has  suffered  like  all  the  rest  of  us, 
and  learnt  her  lesson." 

There  was  no  time  to  reply  to  that;  for  while  Joe 
Kenyon  was  still  speaking,  the  car  turned  in  at  the 
front  gates,  and  they  both  hurried  forward  to  meet 
it.  When  it  stopped  at  their  signal  to  Scurr,  the 
specialist  was  introduced,  and  then  both  Arthur  and 
his  uncle  got  into  the  car,  and  they  all  went  on  to- 
gether up  to  the  house. 

The  conference  in  the  old  man's  bedroom  was  a 
very  short  one,  and  the  specialist  had  nothing  to 
add  to  what  they  already  knew,  save  the  prestige 
of  his  authority.  He  was  a  tired,  gray-looking 
little  man  of  fifty  or  so,  with  an  absent-minded  man- 
ner, but  when  his  anticipated  acceptance  of  the 
diagnosis  had  been  given,  he  looked  keenly  at  Fer- 
gusson  and  said, — 

"Made  a  lot  of  money,  didn't  he?  All  by  his 
own  efforts." 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING    269 

"It's  more  than  half  a  million  I've  been  told," 
Fergusson  answered. 

The  specialist  faintly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
'Wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  him  now.  What?" 
he  commented,  and  with  the  indifference  of  his  pro- 
fession he  carelessly  pinched  the  retreating  chin  of 
the  little  lax  figure  in  the  great  bed. 

"The  predatory  type,  I  presume,"  he  added 
thoughtfully. 

"Ay;  he  was  that,"  Fergusson  agreed.  "More 
cunning  than  clever,  though  he  had  eyes  that  made 
you  think  of  the  eyes  of  a  kite  when  he  was  roused. 
But  he  has  altered  greatly  since  this  seizure.  May- 
be you'd  hardly  credit  it  now,  but  he  has  been  a 
rare  autocrat  with  his  family." 

"You  see,"  Arthur  put  in,  "he  had  them  so  ab- 
solutely in  his  power.  He  could  leave  his  money  as 
he  liked,  and  they  were  all  dependent  upon  him." 

"And  yet  he  must  have  had  a  certain  generosity," 
Fergusson  added,  "for  he  kept  the  whole  lot  of 
them." 

The  specialist  looked  shrewdly  at  Arthur  and 
slightly  pursed  his  mouth.  "That  was  his  one  in- 
terest and  amusement,  perhaps,"  he  said.  "The 
love  of  power  of  a  naturally  weak  man.  It's  com- 
mon enough  if  you  care  to  look  for  it.  Who  suc- 
ceeds?" 

"We  don't  know  yet,"  Arthur  replied.  "His 
lawyer  is  coming  down  by  train  this  afternoon,  and 
will  stay  here  until  the  end — in  case  of  a  possible 
return  to  consciousness.  But  I  suppose  he'll  tell  us 
nothing  until  the  old  man's  dead." 

"You  interested?"  the  specialist  asked. 

"No,"  Arthur  said.  "Not  even  to  the  extent  of  a 
five-pound  note." 

"You  know  that  much,  then?" 


270  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING 

"I  know  that  for  certain, "  Arthur  affirmed. 

Fergusson  whistled  softly  under  his  breath,  but 
made  no  other  comment. 

They  were  quite  a  large  party  at  dinner  that 
night.  Ken  Turner  had  been  telephoned  for,  and 
had  come  down  by  the  same  train  as  Mr  Fleet,  the 
solicitor.  Joe  Kenyon  had  taken  his  father's  place 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  but  occupied  it  as  deputy 
only,  for  his  sister  and  not  his  wife  faced  him  from 
the  other  end. 

They  had  nearly  finished,  when  one  of  the  trained 
nurses  entered  the  room  and  made  a  sign  across  the 
table  to  Arthur.  He  jumped  up  at  once  and  fol- 
lowed her.  He  knew  even  before  she  spoke  to  him 
just  outside  the  dining-room  door  why  she  had 
fetched  him. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done,  but  he  sat 
for  a  few  minutes  beside  the  dead,  remembering 
that  he  had  promised  some  kind  of  autopsy  to  in- 
sure the  body  against  premature  burial.  He  would 
keep  that  promise,  although  he  knew  that  the  pre- 
caution was  quite  unnecessary.  Also  he  thought 
again  of  the  dead  rat  in  the  stable  at  home.  The 
likeness  was  more  pronounced  than  ever. 

He  found  them  all  collected  in  the  drawing-room 
when  he  returned  to  make  his  expected  announce- 
ment. 

"Yes!  It's  all  over.  He  is  dead,"  he  said 
gravely,  in  answer  to  the  look  of  inquiry  they  thrust 
at  him. 

And  with  that  statement  his  function  in  the  house- 
hold ceased.  They  had  eyes  for  him  no  longer. 
The  centre  of  interest  had  shifted  from  the  doctor 
to  the  lawyer.  .  .  . 

His  head  drooped,  he  was  very  tired,  and  he 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HART  LING  271 

went  over  and  sat  down  by  Eleanor.  They  had 
made  no  new  plans,  but  he  did  not  want  to  discuss 
their  future  just  then.  He  wanted  nothing  but  to 
be  near  her,  to  rest  in  his  confidence  of  her  love  for 
him.  She  alone  could  give  him  peace  and  quietness, 
and  he  felt  worn  out. 

They  sat  close  together  in  silence,  happy  in  each 
other's  company,  and  attentive  to  nothing  that  was 
going  on  around  them  until  their  interest  was 
aroused  by  the  voice  of  Mr  Fleet,  speaking  in  a 
raised  tone  that  was  evidently  meant  to  carry.  He 
was  a  tall,  spare  man,  almost  completely  bald,  with 
a  long  thin  nose  and  an  expression  of  careworn 
good  nature.  He  looked,  Arthur  thought,  rather 
like  a  benevolent  old  stork,  and  he  kept  clearing  his 
throat  as  he  spoke  with  a  queer  little  croak  that  was 
curiously  birdlike. 

It  seemed  that  he  was  painfully  aware  at  this 
moment  of  the  importance  of  what  he  had  to  say 
and  that  the  knowledge  embarrassed  him.  Whether 
by  accident  or  design,  a  certain  grouping  had  been 
effected  that  gave  him  the  centre  of  the  stage.  He 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  great  carved  stone 
mantelpiece  that  was  one  of  the  features  of  the 
Hartling  drawing-room,  with  a  clear  space  between 
him  and  the  eight  people  who  in  their  characteristic 
ways  were  exhibiting  the  various  indications  of  the 
intense  excitement  that  was  stirring  them.  After 
all  those  years  of  waiting  and  uncertainty  they  were 
about  to  learn  the  truth,  at  last.  They  had 
awakened  from  their  long  nightmare  of  impalpable, 
inoppugnable  resistances  to  the  grateful  sanity  of 
everyday  life.  And  they  hoped.  They  had  good 
cause  for  hope.  After  all,  it  could  not  be  so  bad 
for  them  now.     The  old  man  had  never  had  any 


272  THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING 

spite  against  them.  He  had  been  generous  in  his 
own  quiet  way.  He  would  have  done  the  right 
thing  by  them. 

Only  Miss  Kenyon,  Arthur  thought,  looked 
doubtful  and  uneasy.  She  sat  a  little  apart  from 
the  others  and  something  of  her  habitual  resolution 
and  confidence  had  gone  from  her.  For  the  first 
time  since  he  had  known  her,  Arthur  saw  her  truly 
as  her  father's  daughter.  She  too,  perhaps,  suf- 
fered from  some  intrinsic  weakness  of  character,  a 
weakness  that  had  been  hidden  by  the  commanding 
office  she  had  held  in  the  household.   .  .  . 

"No  need  in  this  case,"  the  embarrassed  lawyer 
was  saying,  "to  await  any  formal  occasion.  I  have, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  will  in  my  bag  upstairs. 
But  it  is  so  unusually  simple  and — and  I  might  al- 
most say  drastic,  that  no  direct  reference  to  it  is 
necessary." 

Arthur  and  Eleanor  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
little  start  of  surprise.  They  had  never  before 
doubted  the  legend  of  that  untidy  will. 

"Er — er — er — in  short,"  Mr  Fleet  continued, 
wiping  his  forehead,  "the  will  could,  in  this  case, 
certainly  have  been  written  on  a  half-sheet  of  note- 
paper.  Er — er — it  was  made  in  '84,  thirty-six 
years  ago,  soon  after  Mrs  Kenyon's  death.  And — 
er — er — "  his  hesitation  and  distress  became  posi- 
tively painful — "er — in  short — he — he  left  every- 
thing absolutely  to  Miss  Kenyon — to  Miss  Esther 
Kenyon — at  her  absolute  disposal — er — there  were 
no  legacies  of  any  other  kind,  and  Miss  Kenyon  is 
the  sole  executrix." 

Eleanor's  hand  had  crept  into  Arthur's  and  at 
this  announcement  clasped  his  with  such  a  sudden 
grip  of  anguish  that  he  almost  cried  out.  Then  his 
heart  seemed  to  miss  a  beat  as  realisation  burst  on 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  HARTLING   273 

him,  and  his  eyes  turned  as  the  eyes  of  every  other 
person  in  the  room  inevitably  turned,  to  stare  at 
Miss  Kenyon. 

She  was  sitting  very  upright  in  her  chair,  gazing 
out  before  her  with  a  look  of  rapt  contemplation. 
Her  right  hand  was  lightly  clenched  as  if  she 
grasped  a  sceptre,  and  her  widely  opened  eyes  had 
the  cruel,  predatory  stare  of  a  hawk. 

And  clear  and  bright,  a  text  from  the  Old  Testa- 
ment leapt  into  Arthur's  mind.  How  did  it  go? 
"Whereas  my  father  did  lade  you  with  a  heavy 
yoke,  I  will  add  to  your  yoke :  my  father  hath  chas- 
tised you  with  whips,  but  I  will  chastise  you  with 
scorpions." 

Eleanor  had  suddenly  leaned  upon  him  and  the 
grasp  of  her  hand  was  relaxed. 


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